rosed-rouge

[rosed-rouge]

If you want a dose of anguish, despair, and rage, but also anxiety to know how this ends. Please read this. ♥️

James Potter x fem!reader x Sirius Black

Series Summary: You've been best friends with the Marauders since your first year, and you've loved James just as long, however when James begins dating his long-time crush, Lily Evans, suddenly your entire world crumbles. And as usual, Sirius's timing is horrible.

Warnings: everyone is 17/18, their in their seventh year, friends to lovers, love triangle, unrequited love, misunderstanding trope, dubious consent kissing (kinda?), James is oblivious, James x Lily, Snape is a weirdo, reader is going through the motions in this chapter and acts like a normal teenager girl lol

1 / 2 / 3 / 4

September

There's something bittersweet about the way autumn looks in the evenings. The humid air smells like a mixture of vanilla and cinnamon and it reminds you of him. Too many things remind you of him lately: like books that smell like worn out parchment, or the sound of the branches snapping on window shutters in a warm, welcoming, childhood bedroom—

This summer was the first summer you had spent away from them. It hadn't been the same and no matter how much you could pretend you haven't, you have missed all of them terribly.

This meant that the very moment Sirius Black's arms crushed you in a hug, you burst into laughter and squeezed your arms around him. You grin, your smile hurting your cheeks as the sounds of chatter from the train platform melts into the background.

"Hi, Pads," you say and Sirius mirrors your grin as he pulls away, still holding your waist.

You've heard rumors of Sirius Black's infamous charm, almost all the girls in your year say so, but being his best friend you had never experienced it yourself—Sirius had been too busy throwing mud in your hair for you to care about his looks. 

However, watching him now, at seventeen and taller; his normally pale skin slightly tanned from the summer sun at Potter's vacation home in Cornwall, with his dark hair falling around his shoulders in faint waves, you suddenly see what the student body could have meant and it sends heat through your cheeks. 

You feel someone else's presence behind you and you turn around. Remus Lupin is holding both his trunk and Peter Pettigrew's as the latter ties his shoes clumsily. Remus has also changed over the summer, he almost towers over you now, but your eyebrows furrow when you see some new scars across his cheeks. He's never told you why he has them and the others have warned you not to ask. Still, they worry you.

Instead of mentioning them, you point to his ankles and whisper, "Remy, you've outgrown your pants. Do you need new ones? I can ask—" 

Remus helps Peter up and chuckles. He ignores the comment and smiles, nudging Peter over. "We missed you," Peter says, interrupting your worry as he hugs you with a wide smile. Unlike Sirius and Remus, he hasn't changed much and you're happy for the familiarity. One summer couldn't have changed that much. You hug him, pulling Remus in by his sleeve to have him join, still smiling. 

"I missed you both more." 

The train honks and you all wince, laughing as you cover your ears. You look around and just as you open your mouth to ask, you're snatched from Remus and Peter. The scents of vanilla, cinnamon, and oak fill your nostrils as a warm cheek skims yours, muscular arms circling around you. 

James Potter presses feathery light kisses on your cheek and then tousles your hair in a way that has always driven you crazy. "Merlin I missed you, bug," he exclaims, his voice so quiet only you were supposed to hear him. Once he finally releases you from his clutches, you look at him, and he smiles. It's not James's usual smile. It's your smile, the one he has reserved only for you. 

You duck under his arms quickly and escape his hand, groaning as you comb your fingers through the mess he's made of your hair. You send him an annoyed, and reluctantly amused, look as Sirius, Remus, and Peter laugh in the background. 

James's smile turns into his boyish smirk as he laughs. You look at him closely, your eyes squinting as you take him in. His hair looks slightly longer and he looks much more in shape than when you'd last seen him. Perhaps things can drastically change over the summer.  

"What have you been doing over the summer?" you ask, your gaze locked on his arms. He's holding his robe over his shoulder casually, which is causing his forearm to flex and Merlin's name it looks practically sinful—

James bursts out laughing. Your cheeks now burn hotter and it only becomes worse when Sirius puts his hand on your shoulder, "You like 'em? Prongs worked hard for those babies over the summer," he remarks and wiggles his brows in James's direction as his best friend obnoxiously flexes. He looks ridiculous.  

"Oh, fuck you," you say and push Sirius's arm off you. You look at James again and shake your head, biting your cheek. You don't want to encourage him but he does look good. So good your mind wanders.

Suddenly, James's attention moves from you as he calls out a name, one name, one normal, unoriginal, name but the moment the name leaves his mouth, you feel ill and you hold your breath. "Lily!" 

Lily Evans, beautiful and kind Lily Evans. You don't hate her. How could you hate someone so sweet? And still, whenever you hear Lily's name something inside you crumbles into dust and you don't know why. It's like your chest suddenly becomes too small for your heart. Slowly, you turn as James drops everything and pushes by you and some other students simply walking by to meet the red-head. 

"Lily-Flower," he exclaims dramatically, swooping in low and wrapping his arms around the smaller girl's waist, hoisting her up into his arms. You half-assume James will lean in to kiss her— he's always looked like he wants to kiss her, Lily has just never given him permission. 

However, this time their lips connect and the air in your lungs feels like it's been jerked from your chest. Remus moves closer to you, his hand skimming your arm to steady you. You look up at him, your eyes wide. You don't even need to ask. 

"It happened this Summer. Prongs won her over." Remus explains in a whisper, "It all happened so quickly he must not have had time to send you an owl."

Remus making up excuses for James isn't new. He'd tell them in class, during dinner, in the courtyard, during Quidditch matches, anywhere, but he'd never told them to you. James has never been dishonest with you, or hidden something from you. Not you. Up until now, when it must have slipped his mind to tell his best friend something as important as a new girlfriend.

"Oh," is all you can say. 

"James! Not here! Your friends—" Lily squeaks with embarrassment, pulling away and hiding in James's chest like a love-sick school girl. Lily seems to be more relaxed and easily embarrassed. It's weird. 

"No one minds, right, guys?" James asks, looking over at you all. Sirius shrugs, clearly unimpressed and Remus and Peter shake their heads. James's eyes meet yours, looking at you expectantly and you feel cornered. All you can do is strain a reassuring smile with your stomach sinks.  

James returns his attention to Lily, fussing over her as she blushes and clearly enjoys the attention. Your other friends must sense the mood shift because Remus loops his arm in yours, Peter coming to your opposite side, and Sirius isn't far behind as he mutters a spell and your trunks, having them float behind you all. "C'mon, I'm starving," Remus jokes, lightening the mood. 

"I hope they have pudding," Peter thinks aloud, causing a snort from Sirius behind you. 

"They always do, Wormtail," he teases, his tone light, "you just eat it all up for everyone else—" 

"Oi, you shut up, you're already a pain in my arse," Remus snaps at Sirius, who barks another laugh, and for a while, the pain in your stomach from seeing James with Lily becomes a distant memory. 

* * *

Dinner passes fast and you didn't eat with them. You usually don't. You're not a Gryffindor and you have your own friends, friends that you also haven't seen all summer. Jane Hughes, one of your roommates, keeps pestering you about James—to which you only brush her off. There is nothing to say, especially since he's dating Lily.

Your mind wanders as you walk to your Common Room. You don't even hear someone approach behind you until it's too late. "Ow," you suddenly hiss as someone yanks your hair from behind. 

Your cheeks burn with anger as you turn and see—Severus Snape. He's smiling, which leaves your palms sweaty and makes your stomach twist. Perhaps it's the way he hates you, or the strange thing that's always existed between him and Lily Evans, or perhaps it's how even breathing next to him sends James into a fit.

"Snape," you say, soothing your scalp as you move away from him a little. 

"Y/l/n," the boy drones back. You frown. He looks even angrier this year. 

"What is your problem? You can't just pull someone's hair. What are you, a first year? It's childish," you snap, crossing your arms.

Severus looks unamused by the scolding. "You talk too damn much. I have a proposition. I want to date you," he says like he's rehearsed it a thousand times in the mirror. You feel ill.

Your eyes round in shock. You move back again until your shoulders hit the wall. "Excuse me? You want to what?"

"Date you," he repeats, his voice still emotionless. It's becoming awkward. He steps closer and panic rises in your chest. Damn it, you should have just walked back with the others. 

"No."

"No?"

"Yes. No. I don't want to go out with you, Severus."

"Potter would be furious," he says it casually but his gaze flicks over you like you're something to be won. You frown. You don't understand what that has to do with anything. "Don't you want him to be furious? Dating you would make him crazy, Y/l/n, he thinks your his—"

His words are cruel, and it's pathetic. Your gaze hardens as you stand your ground. You're not some pawn he can use to mess with James. "I said no."

"You heard the lady," a voice says behind you—and then James is there, grabbing Severus by the collar. "Why don't you mind your business, Snivellus?" he asks, his tone harsh, as he brushes imaginary dust off Snape's collar as he grins. "You're clearly not wanted here. What a surprise."

Severus shakes his head but his fists are clenched. For a second, you think he'll swing.

He never does. Instead, he shoves James away and the latter lets him. James crosses his arms as Severus mutters a curse behind his breath, "Consider my offer, Y/l/n," is all he says as he turns away.

You watch him slink away, your expression disgusted. You relax once he's gone.

"Bloody creep," James mutters. He turns to you, also relaxed. "You okay?"

You nod, smiling a little. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in the Common Room already? I saw you and the boys leave the Great Hall hours ago."

"I was concerned, and as Head Boy it's my duty to investigate any concerns I have," he says with a nonchalant shrug. "I suppose I have a sixth sense when it comes to you." He smiles.

"We're not in the same house, you knob. And maybe you're just a stalker and I should be worried."

James only laughs, he's unfazed by your words, and simply holds out his arm. "Can I walk you, m'lady?" You smile and take his arm, happy for normalcy. 

The walk toward the Ravenclaw common room is silent in the beginning. You want to ask so many questions about Lily, but you don't want to sound jealous. Still, James is your best friend. He is your best friend no matter what and you shouldn't walk on eggshells around him because of his girlfriend. Knowing Lily, she wouldn't want that anyways. 

"So, you and Lily, huh?"

His eyes light up. Your stomach sinks.

"It happened this summer. She came over when you couldn't, I invited her," James pauses, sounding a little sheepish but he continues, his tone becoming lighter as he tells you, "and well, she kissed me one evening. Just happened."

"She kissed you?" You look genuinely surprised.

"I know! I mean, I never thought the day would come." James is beaming and you should be happy, but you aren't. "Who would've imagined she would make the first move? I mean, technically I made all the moves, but—"

You tune him out.

Left, right, left, right.

You focus on the rhythm of your steps instead of the ache creeping up your chest.

"You okay, bug?" James's voice pulls you from your thoughts and you realize you've made it to the Ravenclaw Common Room. James is looking at you with those puppy dog eyes and you strain a smile. 

"Yeah, I'm really happy for you, Jamie."

The smile hurts.

James smiles back, leaning in and kissing your cheek lightly. Like he always does. "I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"Oh. Okay. Sure." 

James pretends not to notice your fake smile or that you had completely tuned out his rambling. Pretends, because deep down, he knows. He knows what it really is and he won't allow himself to admit it. "Goodnight," he says simply.

* * *

October

"You look awful," Sirius says, eyeing the half-hidden state of your face as you groan against your desk. It's been weeks of no sleep and endless exposure to James's lovesick nonsense. The start of this year has been absolutely  horrible. You turn away from Sirius, who is supposed to be your Potions partner but you haven't been listening. Hair shields the dark circles beneath your eyes.

"I'll hex you, you arse," you mutter.

Sirius ignores you and turns you towards him. When he sees your eyes, how blood-shot they are, he panics. "Bloody hell, did someone—"

You snap up, your head pounding. It isn't Sirius's fault but he's there and you've had enough. "Don't touch me,” you snap, yanking away.

Sirius blinks, confused by your explosion. You stand and shove your books into your book-bag. The entire class has grown silent but you're much too upset to stop now. Your emotions are everywhere. "Can't you shut up for one bloody second? Ever?!" you snap, the words hurtful, and storm out.

Sirius doesn't let it go. He follows you out into the hallway, his voice sharp behind you, "Y/n?!"

You spin around and find him standing close. He's so close your noses almost touch and his cheeks are flushed. His grey eyes are sharp as he grips your shoulders and pushes you against the wall. You gasp. "How dare you speak to me like that?"

You laugh bitterly. "Oh Merlin, Sirius. Grow up."

You try moving away from him but his grip holds you firm. You're so overwhelmed now that your eyes squeeze shut, hiding the tears that threaten to spill.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he asks.

You open your eyes. He looks different now. He looks genuinely upset that you look so hurt and sad. Sirius's hand touches your cheek and suddenly the world stops. His hand is warm against your skin and your heart skips and you don't know why. Suddenly, you can't look away. Sirius looks at your lips and you look at his.

And then he kisses you.

His lips move with certainty, brushing against yours as his hand tightens around your cheek. This shouldn't make you feel better but somehow it does. You kiss him back and your body leans in without permission. You hear a sound behind you and instantly, you snap your head away and look behind Sirius. No one is there. Thankfully. 

Sirius tilts your chin towards him, smiling a little. You laugh, but it's shaky. You laugh until you almost cry. "What was that?" you ask, your voice small. 

Sirius shrugs. "I wanted to kiss you."

Your stomach flips. "This can't happen again, Sirius," you croak, your throat dry.

His smile fades and he drops his hand from your face. He moves away a little. "Why not? I fancy you, Y/n."

Your breath catches. What? Since when? You feel sick. How did this happen? How could you have allowed this to happen? This year is already a mess and now you've kissed one of your best friends while being madly in love with another?

No.   

"Un-fancy me, then."

"I don't think that is how feelings work."

You stare at him. Sirius has never liked girls like you, Merlin's beard you've never even heard him mention a crush! You shake your head. "I'm sorry I let you kiss me. I shouldn't have. But, Sirius, you and I, it's never gonna happen."

Sirius looks gutted.

'I'm so sorry," you whisper, only feeling more horrible than you had been.

Sirius exhales. "It's alright. I get it." He looks into your eyes, his knuckles skim your cheek, smiling a little. "And just so you know, this doesn't change how I feel, hm? And if you ever change your mind, I'll still be here. Waiting," he says and pauses. "This doesn't have to change anything," he whispers.

You don't want him to wait for you, it's unfair. But knowing Sirius, nothing will change his mind right now. You exhale. You really want to believe him that nothing will change. You do. But he’s wrong. Things have already changed. You feel like you're swimming in muddy, uncertain water, and you're not sure how much longer you can stay afloat.

"Yeah," you whisper, your voice shaky. "Okay."

To be continued…. NEXT PART

[rosed-rouge]

Hello there! I hope you're having a great day/night, I'd like to request a SiriusxFem!Reader in an AU where the Marauders are in a band based on the song "English Love Affair" by 5 seconds of summer?

── .✦ 𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫. (𝐬.𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤)

sirius can’t get over his short-lived university love affair.

rockstar!sirius x fem!reader 9.0k masterlist. 18+ for non detailed NSFW mentions

AN | rockstar!sirius anyone??? also side note: 5sos actually bangs

The late summer air was thick with heat, sound, and the unmistakable scent of beer and sweat. The main stage of the Fawley Fields Music Festival was lit like a warzone—bright white strobes slicing through the haze, catching glimmers off sequinned tops and raised cans. Thousands of people were packed into the field, bodies crushed together, limbs raised, voices raw from screaming. And at the centre of it all, silhouetted against the glare, stood The Marauders.

Sirius tipped his head back, the tail end of his black button-down sticking to his sweat-slicked chest. The band had just nailed their penultimate track, a thunderous, guitar-heavy number that had the mosh pit in full chaos. The final chords echoed into the dusky sky, and the crowd roared with it, feeding on the energy like addicts. A chant began that rolled over the sea of people, a chant for more, louder, always louder.

Sirius gave it a second, basking in it. Not out of arrogance—well, maybe a little—but because he’d worked his arse off for this. From the dingy pub stages in East London to this: a sunset slot on the main stage, a crowd 10,000 strong, and the press already calling them the “next big thing in alt rock.” He deserved this moment.

He reached for the mic, fingers adorned in silver rings, and grinned beneath the curtain of sweat-dampened hair falling over his face.

“Alright,” he said, voice cracking from overuse, low and melodic with that accent that made interviewers go stupid. “This one’s a bit different,”

The crowd stilled just enough for his voice to carry, a ripple of anticipation moving through it.

“Normally we’d end on Lily’s Lullaby or something with a filthy breakdown—”

A cheer from the crowd.

“—but I’m gonna be selfish, yeah?”

He shifted his guitar strap slightly, fingers brushing the strings absently.

“This next one—it’s not on any of our albums. Never played it live before,”

More noise, wilder this time. The crowd lived for unreleased content. That, and the enigma of Sirius Black doing anything unpredictable. He was the heartbreaker, the rebel, the beautiful bastard who wrote anthems about one-night stands and sleepless nights.

“This one’s not for the radio,” Sirius continued, a little softer now. “Wrote it back in uni. About a girl,”

He pauses.

“Someone I’ve never really stopped thinking about,”

The scream that tore through the crowd was feral. Phones shot into the air like missiles, filming, snapping, documenting. It was like someone had dropped a match in petrol.

Because Sirius Black—Mr. I-don’t-do-feelings, Mr. Probably-shagged-your-favourite-actress, Mr. Writes-a-new-love-song-every-week—was standing in front of thousands, half-smiling, admitting to being hung up on someone from his past.

A million TikTok theories were born on the spot.

Sirius just laughed, a bit self-conscious, scratching the back of his neck. “Anyway,” he said. “This one’s called English Love Affair. Hope she’s listening,”

He looked out across the crowd—not really expecting to find who he was looking for, of course, but somehow hoping the universe might oblige. Then, fingers deft on the strings, he struck the first chord.

It started on a weekend in May

I was looking for attention

Needed intervention

Felt somebody looking at me

The library at Hogwarts University smelled like stress, highlighters, and the slow decay of hope. It was the last few weeks before final exams, and the building was packed wall to wall with students muttering formulas under their breath and flipping through textbooks like salvation could be found between the pages of Financial Accounting and Corporate Strategy: Vol. II.

Sirius was not one of them.

He sat in a corner near the back, long legs stretched under the table, black hoodie rucked up to his elbows, a biro tucked behind his ear. His textbook lay open in front of him, unread and unhighlighted, the margins empty, the pages pristine—unlike everyone else’s, which were cluttered with notes, frantic underlines, and colour-coded tabs.

He hadn’t turned a page in half an hour.

Not because he was clever enough not to need to revise—although he could bullshit his way through most subjects if he had to—but because, frankly, he just did not care.

Finance. Fucking finance.

He hated the word. Hated the suits, hated the spreadsheets, hated the suffocating inevitability of it all. He only chose this degree because his mother nearly had an aneurysm when he said he wanted to study music. Now here he was, slogging through a degree in numbers and company law, just so she could parade him around at family dinners like some stock option.

And still, none of it meant anything to him.

The only reason he was even in the library was because James had confiscated his guitar that morning and told him to “go fail somewhere quiet,”

So he was here. Not failing exactly, but definitely not succeeding.

He sighed and let his head drop forward, forehead thunking softly against the open page.

“Kill me,” he muttered into the textbook. “Just… kill me and tell my parents I died doing something noble,”

He sat there a moment longer, pretending to care, then lifted his head.

And that’s when he saw you.

You were sitting two tables over. Hair pulled back, earbuds in, laptop open. You looked like the sort of person who had colour-coded tabs and knew how to use them. The sort of person who had probably made a revision schedule and stuck to it. The sort of person Sirius’ mother would call “sensible,” which, in Sirius’ world, meant “soulless.”

But you didn’t look soulless. You looked… distracted.

Because you’d just glanced at him. And then, when you thought he hadn’t noticed, you glanced again.

He smirked, straightening slightly. A distraction. Just what the day needed.

He watched you for a second—long enough to realise you were pretending to type while your eyes flicked back to him every few sentences. Something about it made his stomach twist, in a way that was more exciting than it should have been.

He gave it two more seconds.

Then he stood.

You saw him coming out of the corner of your eye and quickly looked back at your screen, like the spreadsheet on your screen had suddenly become the most fascinating thing on earth.

“Alright?” he said, stopping by your table. Voice low. Lazy.

You pulled out one earbud and looked up at him.

“Hi,” you replied cautiously. He was standing very close.

Sirius smiled. “You keep looking at me,”

You blinked. “Do I?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Not that I blame you. I’m devastatingly handsome and tragically bored,”

You snorted. “Bit full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Just self-aware,” He grinned, and you hated that it made him even more attractive. You looked back at your screen, but the smirk tugging at your lips gave you away.

“Well, if you’re so bored, shouldn’t you be studying?”

He leaned one elbow on the table, peering at your notes.

“I’ve been staring at the same page for an hour. Thought I might die from the lack of stimulation. Then you started looking over,”

You raised a brow. “And that was enough stimulation?”

“Debatable,” he said, “but worth investigating. What’s your name?”

You tilted your head. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

He frowned. “Should I?”

You closed your laptop with a little snap and turned to face him properly. “We’ve been in the same lecture for Corporate Markets and Investment Policy all year.”

There was a long pause. Sirius blinked, visibly scrambling to remember. “...Seriously?”

You nodded. “Seriously,”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, shit. In my defence, I don’t actually attend most of those. I just... exist in proximity,”

You laughed, properly this time. “Yeah, I know,”

His hand dropped to his side, and he gave you a sheepish smile. “Alright, that was rude of me. Let’s try again,” He held out a hand. “Hi. I’m Sirius Black. Chronic underachiever and part-time nuisance,”

You raised an eyebrow but shook his hand anyway. “Yeah, I know who you are.”

He grinned, pleased. “Reputation precedes me?”

“Something like that,” you said.

He laughed—loud enough that someone nearby glared over their textbook.

You didn’t apologise.

Sirius sat down in the chair across from you without asking, stretching out like he belonged there.

“So,” he said. “You clearly know everything about me, and I’ve got absolutely nothing on you,” he muttered, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. “Give me something to work with,”

You looked at him, considering. You didn’t really have time for this—you had an entire section on financial derivatives to memorise—but the prospect of watching Sirius self-destruct over economic theory was weirdly entertaining.

And maybe... a bit flattering. The hottest boy in your course—maybe in the whole uni—had noticed you. And now he was sitting across from you, eyes warm, grin easy, pretending like this wasn’t completely out of the blue.

You introduce yourself, and he smiles.

“Suits you, your name,” he tosses you a wink and you roll your eyes.

“Charming,” You leaned back slightly. “Alright. Lets get revising,”

Sirius blinked. “What?”

You gestured at your notes. “Revising? For the exams? I’ll help you,”

He blinked again, visibly confused. “You will?”

You nodded. “On one condition,”

A pause.

“You buy me a drink after,”

Sirius stared. Then laughed, a little too loud. “That’s it? Just a drink?”

You shrugged. “My standards are low. Plus, it’ll be fun to watch you fail in real-time,”

He clutched his chest dramatically. “Ruthless,”

“You love it,”

“I do,” he agreed, leaning in again. “You’ve got this terrifying no-nonsense thing going. It’s very—” His eyes flicked to your collar, then back to your face. “—compelling,”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t quite stop the smile creeping across your face. “Eyes on the prize, Black.” You tap the textbook on the table with your finger. “This is your last chance to not flunk out,”

He sighed. “Fine. But I reserve the right to flirt with you shamelessly through every single concept,”

“Deal,” you said. “But if you ask me what ‘liquidity ratio’ means, I will hit you,”

Sirius smiled like he’d just won something. “Bring it on, sweetheart,”

—

Over the next hour, the two of you settled into a rhythm. You explained things with more patience than you thought you had, and Sirius surprised you by actually listening. He wasn’t as clueless as he made out—he just hadn’t bothered to try. But with you, he leaned forward, asked questions, made jokes that were half-clever and half-chaotic.

And every time you laughed, he looked pleased with himself.

The library didn’t feel as heavy anymore. The air around your little corner was warmer, brighter, tangled up in whispered banter and the scratch of your pens.

At one point, you reached over to show him something in his notes, and your hands brushed. It was stupid. Brief. But it sent a flicker of something down your spine.

Sirius glanced up at you, and you knew he felt it too.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

But when he caught you watching him a few minutes later, he didn’t look away.

—

By the time the clock ticked past five, your brain was fried, your stomach was grumbling, and Sirius looked genuinely shocked to have filled an entire page with actual revision.

“Well,” he said, stretching, arms over his head. “That was productive,”

You nodded, packing your things away. “Told you I’m good,”

“You are. Absolutely,”

He stood with you, grabbing his bag, then hesitated.

“So. That drink?”

You slung your backpack over your shoulder. “You buying?”

“Obviously,” he said, throwing you a grin. “Consider it payment for saving my academic life,”

You paused, then leaned in, voice low. “If you actually pass, I might let you buy me a second one,”

He looked delighted. “Motivation. I like it,”

You nudged his shoulder. “See you at nine,”

Every single step had me waiting for the next

Before I knew it, it was serious

Dragged me out of the bar

To the backseat of her car

The bar was packed, noisy, and swimming in neon. It smelled like vodka, cheap perfume, and the burnt citrus of a bad cocktail. A proper student haunt—threadbare booths, sticky tables, and drinks so discounted they might as well have been charity. It was the kind of place people ended up when deadlines were done and mistakes were begging to be made.

And tonight, you were absolutely here for the mistake.

You walked in just before nine, wearing a dress that left little to the imagination and a lipstick shade that promised trouble. You didn’t do it for him—not entirely—but you did want to look good.

You spotted him before he saw you. Slouched at the end of the bar, drink in hand, legs stretched out like he owned the place. He’d dressed up, sort of—fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, rings flashing on his fingers, and a ridiculous silk tie hanging loose around his neck. Burgundy, patterned, completely unnecessary.

He looked infuriatingly good.

When his eyes finally met yours, it was immediate—like a live wire connecting across the room. His mouth tugged into a slow, deliberate grin. And then he stood.

“Bloody hell,” he said when you reached him, voice low in your ear. “You clean up terrifyingly well,”

You gave him a smirk. “So do you. What’s with the tie?”

“Statement piece,” he said, tugging it dramatically. “Makes me look respectable. Like I haven’t just failed two modules,”

You laughed, and he motioned to the bar. “What’s your poison?”

“What’s the most expensive drink on the menu?” you asked sarcastically, leaning on the counter.

He raised a brow. “Brutal. I like it,”

And then the night began.

He bought you drinks. You made fun of his posh voice and the fact he’d never once brought a pen to class. He pretended to be offended when you called him a trust fund degenerate, and you pretended not to notice the way his eyes kept dropping to your mouth when you sipped your drink.

You talked for nearly two hours, and not a single thing either of you said truly mattered. It was all smoke and mirrors, banter and bravado. He told you about some summer internship he was meant to be doing in London. You told him about your part-time job at a bookshop, about your roommate who kept hogging the shower.

He laughed at everything you said. You rolled your eyes at everything he said. And yet—your knees brushed. His hand lingered too long when he passed you your drink. And the air between you got heavier with every sip.

By the third round, you were tipsy. Loose-limbed. Bolder.

“You’ve got a tell, you know,” you said, swirling your drink.

Sirius leaned in. “Oh?”

“You stare,” you said, eyes meeting his. “Like, a lot,”

He didn’t flinch. “So what?”

The silence after that was thick and deliberate. He looked at you like he knew what you were thinking. Like he’d been waiting for the moment you stopped pretending.

So you stood. Downed the last of your gin.

And said, very casually, “Come with me,”

He blinked. “What?”

You reached down, grabbed the end of that ridiculous tie, and gave it a tug. Not hard. Just enough.

He stumbled forward, grin spreading.

And then you dragged him out the back entrance of the bar.

—

The car park was half-empty, dark but not quite silent. Your little hatchback was parked in a corner, under a flickering lamp. You fumbled with your keys, laughing under your breath, and Sirius followed like a moth to flame.

The second the doors were shut, it was chaos.

You were in the backseat, lips on his, hands everywhere—his hair, his jaw, his shoulders. He was kissing you like he’d been waiting all term, like the world might end if he didn’t get another taste. His hands were on your waist, under your dress, against your thighs, and his mouth was hot and hungry against yours.

It was rushed. Clumsy. Perfect.

Clothes were pulled aside, not off. Your dress rucked up. His belt undone. Breathless laughter between kisses. The car fogged up quick, your back pressed to the front seat, knees hitched around his hips. The phone in his pocket dug into your thigh. Neither of you cared.

You moaned into his mouth, fingers tangled in his stupid hair, and he groaned like it physically hurt to hold back.

—

He thought about that night.

A lot more than he meant to.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. A stress relief. An impulsive decision wrapped in gin and flirtation. You’d both gone home that night in your separate directions—him to his flat, you to yours. No promises made. No numbers exchanged.

But Sirius didn’t stop thinking about you.

He tried to laugh it off, at first. Made a joke to James the next morning about the perils of student bars and the danger of sharp women with sharper tongues. But then he couldn’t stop hearing your voice. Couldn’t stop remembering the exact shade of your lipstick or the way you’d yanked him by his tie like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And when he couldn’t sleep, which was often, he played his guitar.

Loudly.

At three in the morning.

“Mate,” James groaned one night, pillow over his head. “You are killing me.”

“I’m expressing my feelings,” Sirius muttered.

Remus poked his head in from the hall. “Can you express them a bit quieter? Some of us have dissertations.”

Peter mumbled something incoherent from the other room, which sounded vaguely like “murder” and “strangle.”

But Sirius just kept playing. Over and over again. New chords. Snatches of melodies. Half-formed lyrics that always started in May and ended with a car seat and a laugh he couldn’t get out of his head.

James, one bleary-eyed morning, said, “You’re obsessed.”

Sirius didn’t argue. Because it was true, you haunted him.

Not in a spooky, ethereal way. In a maddening, brain-eating way. You were a thought that scratched at the back of his skull. A loop he couldn’t escape. And the worst part? He hadn’t seen you since that night. No sightings. Nothing.

He looked around in lectures. Couldn’t see you.

He went back to the bar once, under the pretence of meeting someone else. You weren’t there.

He even almost asked around.

But something held him back. Pride, maybe. Fear that you’d already moved on and that it had just been one night for you. No regrets. No repeats.

Still, when he lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, guitar across his lap, he could still hear your laugh. Still remember the exact pitch of your voice when you’d said, “Come with me.”

And every time he closed his eyes, he was back in that car.

When the lights go out, She's all I ever think about

The picture burning in my brain

The lyrics came easily after that.

Sirius had written songs before—some good, most chaotic—but this one poured out of him. Every line was sharp-edged, vivid. He remembered your fingers in his hair, the way your perfume clung to his hoodie. The rush of it. The rawness. The feeling that something had tilted in the universe that night and hadn’t corrected since.

James found the scribbled lyrics one afternoon and raised an eyebrow.

“This about the library girl?”

Sirius didn’t look up from the guitar. “What library girl?”

“Oh come on,” James said. “The one you ditched us on a friday night for?”

Sirius strummed a chord, nonchalant. “Maybe,”

The movie playing in my head

Of her king sized bed

Means I can't forget my English love affair

You weren’t expecting him to approach you again.

You’d told yourself it had been one night

—a spectacular, toe-curling, sanity-erasing night, sure—but still, just one night. And Sirius Black didn’t strike you as the type to chase anything other than a bottle of whiskey or a reckless thrill.

So when you heard your name called across the quad, three days later, you were surprised enough to turn around.

And there he was. Strolling toward you with his bag slung over one shoulder and a grin already forming—the sort that suggested either mischief or flirtation, probably both. He looked slightly dishevelled in a way that was too intentional to be accidental. Button-up undone at the collar, necklace peeking out. That same stupid leather jacket strewn over his shoulder.

“Alright?” he asked casually, falling into step beside you.

You arched a brow. “Back for round two?”

“Actually, yes,” he said, and the shamelessness of it made you laugh. “But not the kind you’re thinking. I need help with business economics.”

You blinked. “You need help… from me?”

“You’re the only one who can talk about GDP without sounding like a dementor,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Also, I won’t lie—the button-up’s distracting in a way that makes learning bearable.”

You looked down at your shirt, then back at him. “So you’re bribing yourself into revision by ogling me?”

“Exactly,” he said brightly.

“Charming,”

“I try,”

He gave you a look then—not intense, not over-the-top, just curious. A bit hopeful around the edges. You didn’t have to say yes. But you were already smiling. You were already shifting your books and mentally clearing your schedule.

“Fine,” you said. “But if I’m going to babysit you through fiscal policy, you’re buying the coffee,”

He gave a dramatic bow. “I’m a man of honour,”

“And of short attention span,”

“That too,”

—

You studied together later that day in a quiet alcove of the library—you with your notes, him with his tongue between his teeth as he tried to understand elasticity graphs. Every time you leaned over to explain something, he stared. Not subtly. Not even a little.

“Eyes up, Black,” you muttered.

“Can’t help it,” he said without shame.

But you could tell he was trying. He asked questions. Made actual notes. Repeated terms back to you with enough confusion that you knew he was listening, even if he was wildly out of his depth.

At one point, you looked up to find him watching you with a strange sort of intensity.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly. Then added, “Just wondering how the hell I didn’t notice you before this term,”

You smiled, trying to ignore the warmth that crept up your neck. “Maybe because you only come to half the lectures,”

He chuckled. “Maybe,”

—

Two nights later, he was at your flat.

You’d invited him this time.

“You sure?” he’d asked, leaning against the kitchen counter when he arrived. “You could’ve dragged me to the library again,”

You handed him a glass of cheap vodka. “And let your eye-line drift all over the place in public? Absolutely not,”

He grinned. “Fair point,”

He looked around your flat—small but tidy, the kind of space that felt lived in, comfortable. A few mugs on the table, textbooks stacked under the telly, a random scarf hung by the door even though it’s almost June.

“Flatmates?” he asked, sipping.

“They’re out,” you replied.

He raised a brow.

You added, very smoothly, “I told you to come over today for a reason,”

That made him pause.

He didn’t reply right away. Just looked at you like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or lunge.

Instead, he sat on the sofa, stretched out like he owned the place, and said, “Alright then. Teach me things, professor,”

You groaned, grabbing your laptop and books. “If you call me that again, I’ll throw you off the balcony,”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a woman tried to kill me for being too charming,”

“Gods, you’re exhausting,”

“Yet here I am. On your couch, with you. Alone,”

You tried to study. You really did.

But between the flirting and the alcohol and the way he kept leaning in to comment on the terrible formatting in your notes, it was a lost cause. The vodka burned. The music you put on (mostly as a distraction) didn’t help. By the third drink, you were both a bit giggly, a bit warm, sprawled sideways on your couch with your legs tangled together.

He was fiddling with your highlighter, spinning it in his fingers. You reached over to steal it back, and he caught your hand.

“What’s your deal then?” you asked, half-curious, half-buzzed.

“My deal?”

“You dress like you mugged a punk band,” you said, gesturing at his worn boots and tattered denim, “but you sound like you came out of a Jane Austen novel,”

He snorted. “It’s the trauma,”

“Oh, obviously,”

He sighed, let his head fall back on the arm of the sofa. “My family’s a nightmare. Old money. Very proper. Think they invented the stock market,”

You watched him for a moment. He looked tired—the sort of tired that sits in your bones. The kind you don’t fix with sleep.

“So why are you here?” you asked quietly.

He shrugged. “They paid my tuition. All of it. That was the deal—get the degree, then ‘join the family legacy’ or whatever. Be a good Black,”

“You don’t want to?”

“Not even slightly,” he said, voice dry. “I hate it. I hate the lectures, I hate the people, I hate the smug twats who think balance sheets are sexy,”

You laughed. “So what do you like?”

He hesitated, then looked at you sideways. “Writing music. Playing. Screwing around with the band.”

“You’re in a band?”

He grinned. “We’re called the Marauders. James, Remus, Pete and me. Mostly just gigs around campus and dive bars. We’ve got maybe one good song and three that sound like drunken karaoke.”

“So, what? You write songs about getting high and having sex?”

The words came out before you could stop them—a joke, half-serious, mostly cheeky. You were smiling.

“Pretty much,” Sirius shrugged lightly. “You’ve been quite the inspiration lately,”

You stared at him. For a full beat. “You’re taking the piss.”

“I’m really not.”

You started to laugh. “Are you serious?”

He gave you a wink. “That’s my name,”

You threw a cushion at his face. “That’s such a bad joke.”

He pulled the cushion off his lap and said, “I’m not kidding. It just sort of happened. Couldn’t stop thinking about it,”

You paused.

“You’re serious,”

He nodded.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “It was good. You were good. And I don’t know — I kept seeing it in my head. The windows fogged up, that stupid tie, the way you looked at me,”

You weren’t sure what to say.

Part of you wanted to laugh again—it was absurd, wasn’t it? The campus heartbreaker, Sirius bloody Black, writing actual music about an actual one-night stand. Another part of you… didn’t quite want to make a joke.

You looked at him, really looked at him.

He wasn’t smirking now. Wasn’t leaning into the charm.

He looked oddly nervous.

“You said you couldn’t stop thinking about it,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“And now what?”

He tilted his head. “Now I’m on your couch, half-drunk, trying to pass my finance exam so my mum won’t disown me,”

You smiled.

He smiled back.

—

Later that night, you kissed again—slower this time, more sure. Your hands in his hair, his on your waist. His lips soft and searching, like he was learning the shape of your mouth by heart.

You pulled back at one point, breathless, and said, “You’re not just here for the notes, are you?”

He laughed, low in his throat. “Not even slightly,”

And then he kissed you again.

You were the one who pulled back first.

Not because you wanted to stop. Just because the weight of what you were doing—the feel of his hands on your waist, the heat building behind his lips—had finally caught up with the moment. The couch was small, the flat was quiet, and Sirius Black was looking at you like you were already halfway into a dream he hadn’t realised he was having.

You gave him a look. One eyebrow arched, all faux-detachment and teasing heat.

“So,” you said casually, brushing a finger along the collar of his shirt. “What you’re saying is… I’m the best lay you’ve ever had?”

He didn’t even hesitate.

“Absolutely.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how quick—and how serious—he was. “That was fast,”

“I’m decisive,”

“You’re drunk,”

“And still right,”

You laughed, trying not to feel flustered, but your heart gave a weird little thud in your chest. “Sirius—”

“I mean it,” he said, sitting back just enough to meet your eyes fully. “Do you want the whole list? Cos I can’t even remember anyone else’s name when you’re looking at me like that,”

That shut you up.

He was smiling, yes—that usual grin, all teeth and trouble—but something in his voice felt weighted. Not a joke. Not really.

You searched his face, waiting for the punchline, the wink, the smug little shrug.

But he just looked at you.

Earnest.

Soft, even.

And your brain, already muddled by the vodka, the warmth of him, the whole surreal magic of the night, completely short-circuited.

“Right,” you said eventually, standing up too quickly. “Bedroom. Now. Before I change my mind and make you sleep on the sofa,”

He grinned, leaping up after you. “You love me,”

“Shut up,”

“You want to marry me and have my terrible punk babies,”

“Oh my God,”

“Gonna name one after James, obviously—”

You smacked him with a pillow before dragging him by the hem of his shirt toward the hallway.

You tried, genuinely, to be patient, but you were both far too drunk to have anything resembling grace. You got halfway down the corridor before Sirius managed to tangle one foot under the other and slam into the wall with a bark of laughter.

You wheezed trying to pull his shirt off and he ended up getting both his arms stuck through one sleeve.

He tripped over your shoes and nearly brought you down with him.

Your elbow went into a doorframe. His jeans got stuck on his ankle.

By the time you finally collapsed onto the bed, you were both half-dressed, breathless with laughter, and absolutely gone — the sort of drunk where everything is funny and your hands don’t quite do what you tell them to.

And still, somehow, your mouths found each other.

It was messy. Clumsy. Loud. Rushed in some places, slow in others. There was a lot of giggling. Some frustrated huffing. His necklace got caught in your bra strap and you ended up yanking it off entirely and throwing it across the room.

“Gentle,” you hissed at one point, when he tugged your hair a little too roughly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled against your collarbone, voice already hoarse. “Just—fuck, you smell good,”

“You’re really drunk, huh?”

“Drunk on you.” He throws you a wink.

You smacked his shoulder. “Gag, that’s such a cliche line,”

“You won’t remember it anyway,”

You didn’t speak after the initial teasing. There was no need for words when his hands were on your thighs and your mouth was tracing the shell of his ear and the whole world had shrunk to your mattress, your body, him.

And then it was over—or it wasn’t, you weren’t sure. The minutes blurred. The vodka didn’t help. You were sweaty, tangled together under your duvet, his arm flung lazily across your waist, your leg hooked over his hip like it had always belonged there.

You stared at the ceiling.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured after a while.

“Thinking,” you whispered.

“About?”

You turned your head to look at him.

Sirius Black. Shirtless. Sleepy-eyed. Absolutely ridiculous. And completely still.

You didn’t answer.

—

You woke up before him.

The sunlight coming through the blinds was far too bright for your hangover, but you didn’t move. Not immediately. You were too aware of the weight beside you, the arm still draped across your stomach, the soft sounds of his breathing as he dozed.

He looked younger when he slept.

Less arrogant. Less sharp around the edges.

And fuck, you thought, staring at the ceiling again. What the hell are you doing?

This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

It was supposed to be hot, chaotic, meaningless fun. A distraction. A break from your assignments and your own mess and the looming terror of the post-uni void. He was supposed to be a good shag—nothing more.

But you’d seen the look on his face last night.

He meant it.

And, worse—some traitorous, pathetic, unguarded part of you wanted to believe it.

You let out a long breath.

Sirius stirred beside you, groaning as he blinked against the morning light.

“M’head,” he mumbled.

“That’s the vodka,” you said softly.

“Betrayed by my own choices again,”

You smiled despite yourself.

He looked over at you and smiled too, all sleepy and unfiltered, the kind that made something in your chest flutter before you could stop it.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,”

He stretched—limbs long and tangled in your sheets—and then rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow.

“Do you always look this fit in the morning?” he asked.

“Do you always flirt through hangovers?”

“Only with people who’ve ruined me sexually,”

You laughed. “You’re so full of it,”

“And yet,” he said, leaning in to kiss your shoulder, “you keep inviting me back,”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re tolerable when asleep,”

“I’m irresistible always,”

“I think the word you’re looking for is insufferable,”

“No, no,” Sirius shakes his head carefully, trying not to worsen the impending headache. “Definitely irresistible,”

—

He left mid-morning.

You offered him toast. He accepted. Ate it half-standing in your kitchen like he’d done it a hundred times before. Then he grabbed his shirt, kissed your temple without thinking, and promised to see you later.

And then he was gone.

You stood there in the quiet.

Trying not to feel the loss in the room.

When I got out I knew

That nobody I knew would be believing me

You didn’t hear from him much over the next few weeks.

A couple waves, a few hellos, but nothing proper.

You were too busy. Exams swallowed your brain like quicksand. You crammed until your fingers cramped, drank enough energy drinks to probably cause a coronary, and watched the sunrise from your desk too many mornings in a row.

Your social life dwindled to caffeine-fuelled library whispers and the occasional flatmate making sure you’d eaten something other than toast.

When the final exam finished—the bastard of a quantitative finance paper—you nearly cried walking out of the lecture hall. Someone popped champagne in the quad. You high-fived your study group. You stood on the steps and screamed into the sky.

And in July, you passed. Somehow.

Everything felt lighter.

And then, just as you were heading to your car with your results in hand—sun out, heels clicking against the pavement, wind tugging at your open shirt collar—you saw him.

Sirius.

Leaning against the railing with his hair tied back and his leather jacket slung lazily over his shoulder. Like no time had passed at all. Like this wasn’t the first time you’d seen him properly in weeks.

“Hey, stranger,” you said, grinning.

He looked up, and smiled—not the usual smirk, but the softer one. The one you always had to pretend didn’t get to you.

You crossed the last few steps and launched into your news without hesitation. “I passed. All of them. Barely—and I mean barely—scraped through quantitative, but I did it. No resits. No crying. Well, I cried a bit, but not during any of the exams—”

He caught you mid-ramble with a laugh, pulling you into a hug before you could finish.

You sank into him automatically.

He smelled like cigarette smoke and warm leather. Your heart did that stupid little dance again.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, voice low against your temple. “Knew you’d smash it,”

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him with a grin. “You owe me dinner. Or celebratory sex. Your choice,”

He laughed, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Both?” he offered, light-hearted but off-kilter.

You narrowed your eyes, teasing but watchful. “Why do you look like someone’s kicked your puppy?”

He didn’t answer straight away.

That was the first clue.

The second was the way his hand stayed on your hip longer than necessary—like he was anchoring himself. Like he didn’t trust his legs not to bolt.

You stepped back fully.

“Sirius.”

“Alright,” he said, voice carefully casual. “Don’t get mad,”

You crossed your arms. “Why would I get mad?”

“Because I’m about to say something stupid,” he replied, then ran a hand through his hair. “And possibly ruin the vibes,”

You waited.

He sighed.

“I’m leaving,”

You blinked. “...What?”

He gave a weak laugh. “I failed. Most of my exams, anyway. Except the one you helped me with— so really, you’re the reason I’ve got any academic credibility at all,”

You opened your mouth, then shut it again.

“I got the notice yesterday,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Uni’s not letting me back next year. They were… diplomatic about it. Said I could reapply after a break, provided I prove academic discipline, blah blah. But I’m not going to,”

“Oh,” you said quietly.

He shifted. “The band— the Marauders— we’ve been getting attention. Played a couple gigs in Camden, some scout liked us. Said we’ve got a sound. He’s offered to get us into a studio. Independent label, nothing big, but… it’s something,”

You were quiet.

“I’m moving out next week,” he added. “Might end up up north for a bit. Or Manchester. Depends where the recording space is. Everything’s still up in the air,”

He glanced at you, then away.

“But I wanted you to know,”

You nodded.

He watched you, a flicker of worry behind his lashes. “You alright?”

You let out a soft breath. “Yeah,” you said, and meant it. “I’m happy for you,”

“You sure?”

You gave him a small smile. “I mean… I’ll miss you. Obviously. Even if it was just a friends-with-benefits situation, or whatever the hell this was. But this is what you’ve wanted, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah,”

“Then I’m proud of you too,”

Something in his jaw tightened.

You tilted your head, half-grinning. “Besides, what kind of monster gets mad at a guy for chasing his dreams?”

He smiled—properly this time, though a bit bittersweet.

You nudged his shoulder. “So, one more round before you go?”

He blinked.

“Sex, genius,”

His eyebrows shot up. “You serious?”

“Call it a send-off. My treat,”

He stared for a beat longer than necessary, then grabbed your hand and pulled you towards your car.

You were both half-laughing, half-running — high off adrenaline and the electric sort of sadness that feels like holding fireworks too close to your chest. The air smelt like summer pavement and exam dust, and Sirius looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. You didn’t let yourself read too far into it.

You knew better than that.

Still, when he pressed you against the passenger door and kissed you with every ounce of tension he’d held in since telling you he was leaving, you let him.

And when you got back to your flat and climbed the stairs two at a time, limbs tangled and mouths chasing the next inhale, you let yourself want him.

Because why not?

What were you saving yourself for?

It felt like a dream, the way you stumbled into your room. His hands on your waist. Yours in his hair. The low clatter of keys falling to the floor. Clothes tugged off, discarded without aim. Your jumper. His shirt. The way he looked under the dim light of your lamp, mouth red and eyes blown wide.

When the lights go out

She's all I ever think about

Except… you didn’t even have sex.

You wanted to. So badly you could’ve screamed.

But something about it—something about the way he looked at you, or the silence between your heartbeats—shifted.

Maybe you both knew that this wasn’t going to be another carefree romp. That if you went any further, it would mean something. Something you weren’t sure either of you could walk away from.

So instead, you just… sat.

You climbed into his lap, straddling him where he’d dropped onto your bed. Your bare legs wrapped around his hips, your lips brushing his jaw—and instead of unbuckling his jeans, you let yourself settle there. Let yourself exhale.

Dusk painted the walls violet and blue. There was a breeze through the open window, and the smell of distant cigarettes from someone smoking below.

And you talked.

He told you about the producing deal in more detail—how the scout was a friend of someone’s cousin, and how it wasn’t official yet, but they’d been invited to record a demo. They’d booked a session in a dingy little place near Camden, and the label guy said if the sound was tight, he’d see what he could do.

“I mean, we’re still technically a uni bar band,” Sirius admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But we’ve got followers. And if it goes well, it’s a foot in the door. A real one,”

“That’s brilliant,” You nodded, tracing the edge of his collarbone absentmindedly. “And terrifying,”

“Oh, it’s horrendously terrifying. I haven’t told my family yet,”

You quirked a brow. “Why not?”

He gave a bitter little laugh. “Because they’ll cut me off. Or worse — be disappointed,”

You leaned your cheek against his shoulder. “Do they even know about the band?”

“Not really. They think it’s a phase,”

“They’re in for a surprise, then,”

He snorted. “They think music’s fine as a hobby — as long as I’m also taking over Black & Co. eventually,”

You hummed. “I’ll take your place,”

He paused. “What?”

You pulled back just enough to grin. “Once I graduate. I’ll apply to be the heir to your family’s cold, corporate throne. Could do with the cash,”

“Don’t even joke about that. You’ll be wearing grey slacks and developing caffeine dependency within weeks,”

You poked him in the chest. “Better than moving in with my mum,”

“Debatable,”

You mock-pouted. “You don’t think I’d make a great junior partner?”

“No offence,” Sirius said, lips twitching, “but my family are absolute twats, and I wouldn’t wish them on you,”

“None taken,” you replied. “They do sound like twats,”

He laughed, and you kissed the corner of his mouth. His hands slid along your thighs in a way that felt instinctive, not lustful—like he was memorising you.

You stayed like that for ages.

Talking. Drifting. Laughing into each other’s skin. The vodka stayed unopened on your desk. The city hummed around you. And every time you looked at him, something soft bloomed in your chest that you didn’t have a name for.

The picture burning in my brain

Kissing in the rain

He stayed the night.

You didn’t ask—just curled under the covers with him once the sky turned navy and the streets below went quiet. He didn’t object. Just pulled you close, his arm around your waist, your head tucked under his chin.

You both slept badly, but neither of you cared.

It was enough to be near.

To exist in the same breath, if only for a few more hours.

—

The morning came too soon.

You dragged yourself out of bed in an oversized hoodie while Sirius rifled through your room looking for his jeans. He finally found them behind your desk chair, tangled in the blanket he’d somehow pulled down during the night.

You tried not to stare at his back as he dressed. Tried not to think about how quiet it felt.

He pulled on his jacket, fingers catching the zip, and you reached out before you could stop yourself—smoothed it for him. He blinked, just once, then smiled that same smile you’d seen on the steps outside campus.

Like he was trying not to let something show.

The clouds outside were thick and heavy, grey like wet concrete. You walked him to the door anyway.

Neither of you said much. Until you opened it—and found the rain waiting on the other side like a punch to the face.

Sirius blinked, stunned by it, before laughing. “Bloody hell,”

It was *pouring—*sheets of rain, bouncing off the pavement, flooding the drains. The kind of rain that soaked you through in seconds. That made umbrellas feel pointless.

You reached for the car keys beside your door, but he stopped you.

“I’ll be alright,” he said, pulling his hood out from where it was shoved inside the back of his jacket, but not putting it up.

You stared at him. “You’re going to walk to your flat in this?”

“It’s only fifteen minutes,”

“In that?” You gestured to his torn jeans and thin cotton tee beneath the jacket.

“I’ll dry off,”

“You’ll drown,”

He chuckled, then hesitated—that same beat-too-long pause he always did before saying something real.

“I’ll be alright,” he said again, more softly.

You didn’t argue this time.

You just watched him step into the doorway and reached for the pen on the side table, scribbling his number on a crumpled receipt.

“Just in case,” He said, holding it out. “In case we get lucky,”

You took it with a grin. “Unlikely,”

“Still. Now you’ve got no excuse,” His eyes met yours, storm-dark and unreadable.

And then he kissed you, with feathered lips and hands gentle enough that they don’t even leave fingerprints on your cheeks.

You barely had time to kiss him back before he stepped into the rain.

Let himself get soaked.

Didn’t even pull up the hood.

He just glanced over his shoulder one last time, gave you a two-fingered salute, and vanished down the street, hair already dripping, receipt crumpled in his hand.

You stood in the doorway until he was gone.

And then longer still.

The movie playing in my head

Of her king sized bed

Means I can't forget my English love affair

The song ends, but the crowd doesn’t.

They’re still screaming—still throwing themselves toward the stage like they could grab onto the final chords and keep them going, as if their voices might convince the band to stay just a little longer. The lights pulse overhead, hot and gold and dizzying. The air tastes like sweat and smoke and bassline, like summer caught in a bottle and shaken until it fizzes over.

Sirius stands at the mic, breathless, his shirt clinging to his back. Hair damp, jaw sharp beneath the spotlight. He looks… elated. Wrecked in the best way. The kind of tired that feels like triumph.

You’re somewhere in the crowd, but he can’t see you.

Doesn’t know you’re there.

Not yet.

Because you hadn’t planned to come. Not until the very last minute—until your best mate shoved a last-minute ticket in your hand and said “Come on, it’ll be funny. Isn’t that your uni crush? The one who played guitar instead of going to lectures?”

You’d laughed.

And then you’d come.

Because somewhere after the goodbye, Sirius Black had turned into someone people recognised. Someone who got played on indie radio stations and reviewed in music blogs. Someone with tattoos and a fandom and a press schedule. The kind of person who said things in lyrics that made strangers cry.

“Holy shit,” James says, breathless as he steps offstage, clapping Remus on the back. “That crowd was insane,”

“Insane,” Remus agrees, wiping sweat from his brow and reaching for a bottle of water. “I thought we were going to lose the speakers during Track Six,”

“We might’ve,” Peter adds, looking mildly terrified and thrilled in equal measure. “I saw security taping one of the subs mid-song,”

James lets out a bark of laughter. “I didn’t notice. Too busy watching Sirius dry-hump his mic stand again,”

“Not my fault the crowd’s thirsty,” Sirius replies, dropping onto a crate near the back of the tent and fanning himself with a setlist. “I’m simply giving them what they came for

“That’s what she said,” Peter grins.

“I’ll leave you all to form your own relationships with your microphones, thank you,” Remus mutters, shaking his head.

Sirius just smirks.

He should be riding the high. The set went better than they’d hoped—no technical issues, the crowd was electric, and the reaction to the unreleased song was mental. He’d watched people mouth along to the chorus by the final repeat, like they already knew it. Like they felt it.

And maybe they did.

Maybe everyone has someone they can’t forget. Even the people who pretend not to care.

“You’re getting softer by the year,” James says as he flops onto the crate beside Sirius, elbowing him lightly. “Soon you’ll be writing acoustic shit about holding hands,”

“Don’t tempt him,” Remus says, snorting. “We’ll get a ballad about library desks and crosswords next,”

“Finance Girl,” Peter says dramatically, holding an invisible microphone. “Track one off the next album,”

Sirius doesn’t respond immediately.

He’s smiling—the kind of half-amused, half-resigned smile that means yeah, alright, fair enough. He tosses his towel over his shoulder, grabs a water bottle to throw in James’ direction, and watches as he raises it in mock salute.

“To Finance Girl,” James says, voice dry. “The unofficial fifth member of the band,”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Remus groans. “You’ll jinx it. She’ll turn up in a dramatic twist of fate and demand royalties,”

“She’s probably a CFO somewhere now,” Peter adds. “Drinking oat milk lattes and marrying some bloke named Quentin,”

James leans in conspiratorially. “So, remind us again. Why did you never go back for her?”

Sirius pauses. The air buzzes with leftover feedback and adrenaline. Somewhere outside, the next band is warming up.

He shrugs. “Dunno. Life got loud,”

“Bet she’s still fit,” Peter says with a dreamy grin. “Imagine the sexual tension if she did show up now,”

“She’s always in your head anyway,” James says. “You write more songs about her than I have about Lily, and we’re married,”

“That’s because you two are boringly vanilla,” Sirius replies without missing a beat, unlocking his phone.

Dozens of notifications. Mentions on Twitter. Clips of the performance already circulating. A missed call from their PR. A text from a number he doesn’t recognise.

And it’s that one that makes him freeze.

still writing songs about how good our sex was? count me honoured

The room falls away.

The noise fades.

He stares at the screen like it might combust in his hand.

Because no one else would know to send that.

No one else could make him feel like a second-year uni student again with just one sentence.

No one else ever dragged him into the backseat of their car by his tie.

Then a second message.

I really hope you haven’t changed your number otherwise whoever is getting this text is gonna be really confused

James notices first. “You alright?”

Sirius doesn’t look up. Just stares at his phone like he’s forgotten what it’s for.

“Mate?”

Sirius finally speaks. “I think she’s here,”

“Who?” Peter asks, still giggling at something Remus said.

Sirius doesn’t answer.

[rosed-rouge]

I love this story. ♥️

I’m in desperate—I mean desperate—need of a Sirius x Reader soulmate AU series written by you. Because oh my God, the idea is just so sweet!

To think that, despite everything—even in the darkest moments of his life—since he was just a little boy, the thought of his one true person waiting for him somewhere out there has been what pushed him through it all. Especially knowing that his parents weren’t soulmates, Sirius has always been absolutely certain that he has to end up with his soulmate. It’s that… or nothing for him so when he starts his Hogwarts journey he’s already on a mission.

── .✦ 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲. (𝐬.𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤)

sirius black wanted nothing more in life than to find his soulmate, to give himself the life his parents never had. but of course it’s not that easy.

sirius black x fem!soulmate!reader 9.8k angst masterlist.

CW | mentions of mistreatment in the black family home, soulmates are complicated, antagonistic relationship between lily and james, peter gets some love, a lot of this is from sirius’ perspective, part one of a series

They say the mark fades the moment your soulmate touches you.

A simple, skin-deep magic with depth beyond comprehension. One moment, you carry a patch of ink—some obscure splotch, a fingerprint, a handprint, a streak. The next, it’s gone. Just... gone. The skin is smooth and unblemished where once magic lingered.

The mark doesn’t tell you who, only where—where on your body your soulmate will first touch you. And once they do, once your souls collide in that first, fated contact, the mark disappears. Like you’re whole again. Like you’ve found something you didn’t know you were missing.

No one really remembers a time before their mark. It's always been there—like birthmarks only fate-born. A quiet promise that someday, somewhere, someone will reach for you and the world will shift.

Some people search for their whole lives. Others stumble into it by accident—brushing hands in a corridor, bumping shoulders in a crowd, one drunken kiss on a dare that changes everything. And then there are those who never find it at all.

Or worse—those who refuse to.

Sirius had spent his entire childhood watching the mark on his mother’s right hand.

It was a violent thing. An ink-black smear that twisted over the bones of her knuckles and bled toward her wrist like a bruise. It was always stark against her pale skin—more visible when her voice rose, when her wand lifted, when Regulus flinched and Sirius refused to cower.

Walburga Black was a woman of ancient lineage and granite values. The House of Black didn’t marry for love. They married for blood. For power. For family name. Soulmates were a fairytale whispered by Halfbloods and Muggleborns, a sentimental excuse for weakness.

And so the smear on her hand never faded.

“She should’ve found him,” Sirius had once whispered to Regulus, who was eight and still soft in the face. “Her soulmate,”

Regulus didn’t look up from his book. “She doesn’t believe in them.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sirius muttered. “She still has one.”

That was what made it worse, really. That somewhere in the world, the one person who might’ve made her less like herself was walking around unaware. That she’d never tried. That none of them did.

He had a mark, too. A broad, dark patch on the front of his shoulder, curling slightly round to the outside of his arm. It looked more like a smudge than anything. Not delicate, not shaped like fingers or palms. Just… mess. Like someone had leaned against him with soot on their hands.

His mother had tried to scrub it off, once.

“It’s barbaric,” she’d hissed, dragging a cloth over his skin with vinegar and spells. “Sentimental nonsense.”

It hadn’t worked. The skin there had stayed marked, warm, stubborn with fate.

And Sirius had made a promise to himself that day. He would find the person who belonged to that mark. He would.

Because he was not going to turn into his mother.

—

The Hogwarts Express smelled like dust and pumpkin, and Sirius was trying very hard not to look as excited as he felt.

He had left. He had left that house, that woman, that family. He was on the train to a castle full of magic and secrets, and he was going to make friends and break rules and maybe even find the person with soot-stained fingers who would touch his arm and make the mark vanish.

He had only just dumped his trunk into the nearest half-empty compartment when a gangly, bespectacled boy stuck his head in and grinned.

“Oi—this seat taken?”

Sirius shrugged. “It is now.”

James Potter flopped down beside him without asking again, closely followed by two other boys: a round-faced, cheerful one who introduced himself as Peter, and a quiet, bookish one with scars hidden behind long sleeves who offered only a nod and the name Remus.

They were only halfway into the journey when the topic—inevitably—arose.

“Soulmarks,” Sirius said, dropping the word into the conversation like a dare.

The carriage fell into a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but loaded — the way quiet feels just before lightning hits. James perked up first, eyes narrowing with interest, then grinned.

“Oh, we’re doing that already, are we?” he said, spinning slightly on the bench so he was facing the rest of them properly. “Right then. Let’s see the lot of yours. Starting with you, Mr Mysterious.”

He pointed at Sirius with an impish grin. Peter gave a small, nervous laugh, and Remus — who had been quietly reading the front page of a Daily Prophet someone had left behind — lowered it slowly.

Sirius hesitated for a second, not because he was shy, but because his mark had always felt like something far too personal to show off, especially under the weight of the Black name. But here, with these boys, he felt the kind of safety he didn’t yet have the words for.

With a shrug, he tugged up the sleeve of his jumper and peeled it back past his bicep. Across the curve of his shoulder — wrapping from the edge of his chest to just past the blade of his back — was a dark smear, like someone had dragged a piece of charcoal across his skin and tried to rub it off before it dried. It was heavy-looking, almost like soot or ash, thick and indelible. Not a handprint. Not a brush of fingers. Just... contact. Weight. Pressure.

“Bloody hell,” James muttered, leaning forward. “Did your soulmate fall on you?”

Sirius laughed — an unexpected, genuine sound. “Haven’t the faintest idea. Maybe they shoulder-barged me. Maybe they crashed into me mid-duel. Maybe it’s a hug. Who knows? Could’ve been anything.”

James hummed, clearly intrigued. “I mean... I suppose you’d know immediately, yeah? The second it happened.”

“Mark fades when it happens,” Sirius replied, tugging his sleeve back down. “Gone. Just like that. You’re ‘whole’ or whatever it is.”

“Romantic, that,” Peter said. “In a weird, sort of terrifying way.”

“Don’t even have to ask about yours,” Sirius said, nodding at James.

James didn’t hesitate. He swept his unruly hair back from his face and tilted his head to the side, revealing the left side of his face — and more importantly, the soft, unmistakable shape of a milky white handprint cradling his cheek. It looked like someone had cupped his face gently, thumb grazing his cheek. It was... tender. Oddly intimate.

Peter chuckles.

“Oh, look at you,” Sirius drawled. “That’s not a soulmark. That’s the prelude to a snog.”

James grinned unabashedly. “Reckon it is, yeah. Imagine, though— first time I meet them, they’re gonna touch my face like I’m some kind of Greek tragedy,”

“Probably to make out with me,” he added with a waggle of his eyebrows, and the entire group groaned.

“Godric help them,” Remus muttered under his breath.

Peter looked slightly self-conscious now that the attention was drifting his way, but when Sirius raised an eyebrow at him, he sighed and turned slightly, pointing at the side of his nose. A small brown splotch marked the bridge, barely the size of a Knut.

“That’s it?” Sirius said.

Peter flushed. “Yes? I don’t know what it means either,”

James leaned in with mock seriousness, licking his thumb and making a show of reaching over. “Sure it’s not just dirt, Peter? Let me—”

Peter yelped and batted his hand away, laughing. “Get off, you tosser!”

Even Remus snorted.

Sirius eyed him then. “What about you, then? Don’t think you’re getting out of this,”

Remus looked suddenly awkward—more awkward than Sirius had ever seen him—and shook his head. “I haven’t got one.”

James looked genuinely surprised. “You... haven’t?”

Remus shrugged. “Not that I’ve ever found,” Not that he’d ever made the effort to check.

“Bollocks,” Sirius said, already rolling up his sleeves again. “Everyone’s got one. It's the whole point, isn’t it?”

James nodded eagerly. “Yeah— we’ll find it. Take your shirt off,”

Peter choked on his own spit.

“Hold your horses, woah—” Remus muttered, clearly flustered.

“Come on, just let us look!” James said. “We’ll be quick about it.”

After several minutes of grumbling and reluctant sighs, Remus finally rolled his eyes and let them have a look—within reason. They checked his forearms, shoulders, collarbones, back, even his calves. Nothing.

“I told you—” Remus started, but Sirius, now unrelenting in his curiosity, stepped closer and squinted at the hairline near Remus’ right temple.

“Hold on,” he said, voice low with interest.

He reached out—gently, and with an uncharacteristic kind of caution—and swept a lock of Remus’ hair back.

There, just along the edge of his hairline, half-hidden by curls, was a thin, chocolate brown mark. Like a thumbprint, just brushing the edge of his temple.

The room went quiet.

“Found it!” Sirius said, triumphantly.

Remus blinked, although, surprisingly, didn’t look all that relieved. “Alright,”

“Told you,” James said smugly, sitting back with a satisfied look. “Everyone’s got one.”

Remus said nothing, but Sirius caught the way his fingers brushed the edge of his fringe, as if somehow wanting to feel it—to acknowledge it now that it was real.

They were quiet for a few minutes after that. Just sitting with it.

And Sirius found himself thinking, strangely, about his mother again—the way her own soulmark had never faded. How it had sat like an accusation across the back of her hand, inky and unmoving, every time she raised it. He’d seen it when she tugged harshly on Regulus’ hair. When she yanked Sirius by the collar. Always there. A reminder of what she could have had.

She had told him once, sneering, “Soulmates are for commoners. Fairytales. Blood comes first. Blood is eternal.”

And Sirius had known, even then, that he wanted something else. Something more.

These boys—these three ridiculous, infuriating, brilliant boys—might not have known it, but they were the first promise he’d ever been given that he might not end up like her. That the mark on his arm meant something real. That someone out there might touch him one day, and the mark would vanish, and the emptiness he’d carried since childhood might finally ease.

He didn’t know it yet, but he was going to spend years hoping for that moment.

And dreading it in equal measure.

—

You’ll never forget the first time James Potter laid eyes on Lily Evans.

It’s early in your first year—just a few days in—and you’re walking with her and Mary down one of the endless, winding corridors of Hogwarts, heading to Charms. Lily’s still got that Muggle-born wonder gleaming in her eyes, even though she tries to hide it behind a proper sense of logic and practicality. She’s talking about the theory behind wand movement, hands gesturing enthusiastically, when it happens.

James Potter, all wild hair and taller-than-he-should-be confidence, rounds the corner with his entourage, Sirius, Remus, and Peter flanking him like a self-appointed court. He spots her, freezes mid-step, and goes oddly quiet.

You notice. You always notice when boys look at Lily. But this one feels different.

Then, James grins. “That’s her,” he says, loud enough for all of the corridor to hear. “That’s my soulmate.”

Lily stops walking. “I’m sorry, what?”

He strides up, not missing a beat. “Your hand, it matches my face,”

She lifts her eyebrows. “It’s the most common soul mark in the world.”

“Just humour me,”

She rolls her eyes—but shows him anyway. A dark mark covering her palm like she’d dipped it in black paint, visible for a fraction of a second before she tucks it behind her again like it’s private. Sacred.

James, however, looks like he’s been handed a prophecy.

“See,” he says, tapping the side of his own face, just under the curve of his left cheekbone. “Perfect fit. You held my face. Or you will. That’s what the universe wants,”

“Or you’re delusional,” she says sweetly. “Ever thought of that?”

You laugh. So does Mary. But James—he just smiles, full of charm and stupid certainty.

From that moment on, James is relentless.

He doesn’t declare it once and then let it lie. No—he tells everyone who’ll listen. Tells Peter, tells Sirius, tells Remus (who already knows but still rolls his eyes every time). Tells older students. Tells a professor, once, though you think he was joking that time.

At first, it’s annoying. Then it becomes unbearable.

Because the Marauders, they don’t just say they believe in soulmates. They act like it means they’re entitled to you.

You and Lily and Marlene and Dorcas and Mary had started off giving them the benefit of the doubt. They seemed harmless enough: loud, yes, but not cruel. But then James began following Lily everywhere— always appearing outside your common room, in the corridors between classes, in the library. And Sirius and the others followed along too, trailing after you girls like a bad smell.

They’d show up outside Potions just to “bump into” you. Or drop casual comments in the Great Hall about how Remus got the highest score on the Defence essay, as if anyone asked. Or make loud boasts about Quidditch tactics, like they were auditioning for a future career in bragging.

You never understood what they wanted. It was clear enough that James was obsessed with Lily, but what about the rest of them?

Remus always seemed more amused than anything, like he was watching a tragic play unfold, one he knew the ending to but couldn’t stop. Peter was just... there. Laughing too hard at every joke James made, like he thought that was the price of staying in the group.

And Sirius— Sirius was different.

He didn’t really flirt. Didn’t boast as much. He mostly watched. With those storm-grey eyes that felt like they were always seeing more than they should. He’d smirk sometimes, or throw in a sarcastic comment, but he was quieter than you expected. There was something behind it, like he wasn’t entirely present. Like his mind was elsewhere, chasing shadows.

You noticed that too. How he’d go still when someone mentioned soulmarks in passing. How he looked at couples in the corridors—the ones laughing with linked hands, whose marks had already faded—with a kind of distant longing that felt too raw for someone so young.

It was almost sad, in a kind of pathetic way.

But none of that excused their behaviour.

The truth was: you didn’t like them. Not really. None of you did.

They were loud and reckless and juvenile. They’d hex Slytherins in the corridor and act like they were defending the moral high ground. They’d shout across classrooms, make up chants, prank students for fun. Once they transfigured all the cauldrons in Potions into frogs, and Professor Slughorn found it hilarious. You didn’t.

You didn’t like being followed. You didn’t like the way they laughed when you were trying to work, or how James seemed to think Lily owed him something just because he’d decided the universe wanted them together.

You’d tried confronting them, all of you.

“I’m not interested,” Lily had told James flat-out one day outside Charms. “No matter what your cheek tells you.”

“But you will be,” he’d replied, infuriatingly smug. “Eventually,”

You’d wanted to hex him on her behalf.

The worst part was how consistent they were. They just didn’t get bored. Most boys would move on after the first rejection—bruised ego, muttered grumbling. But not James Potter. He treated it like a game he was determined to win. Like every protest was just another obstacle the fates had set up to test his resolve.

It wasn’t romantic. It was exhausting.

And the more it went on, the more it began to change the dynamic between the two groups. The Marauders kept orbiting around you, even when it was obvious they weren’t welcome. Even Remus, who you thought might’ve had some basic common sense, proved to be just as bad.

You started changing your routes to class. Started choosing study corners furthest away from their usual haunts. You stopped walking the long way to Herbology because they’d wait for you by the greenhouse and pretend it was coincidence. But no matter what you did, they always found you.

It wasn’t even that they were mean. That might have been easier. They were just... there. Always.

And when they weren’t there, you caught yourself noticing.

It was a strange thing, realising how used you’d grown to their presence. How you’d memorised their stupid voices. How, occasionally, when Sirius didn’t say something clever and cutting in class, you’d feel the absence of it.

You don’t notice it at first—not really. Sirius Black is a lot of things: loud, charming, irritating, surprisingly clever when he wants to be. But what he is most of all is consistent. A constant thorn in your side. An ever-present source of chaos orbiting James Potter’s ego.

So when he starts acting strangely, it takes a while to catch your attention. At first, you chalk it up to more Marauder nonsense. Another prank brewing. Another hare-brained scheme. But then the weeks pass, and the silence stretches, and you begin to realise something is off.

He starts dating. A lot.

It begins in fourth year, the way most ridiculous boy behaviour begins—with no explanation, no warning, no respect for peace. One week it’s Emilia Montague, who has hair like spun gold and a voice that drips honey. Then it’s Jules Macmillan, who calls him “Black” and slaps his arm when he makes her laugh. A week later, he’s holding hands with Evan Rosier’s cousin at the Quidditch pitch.

It becomes a bit of a game, watching the trail of would-be soulmates.

You and the girls make a tally chart in the margins of your notes—Sirius' Heartbreak Count, complete with doodles. Lily calls it “tragic.” Dorcas calls it “desperate.” You’re inclined to agree with both.

He doesn’t seem happy with any of them.

There’s always a flicker of disappointment in his eyes after each kiss. Each failed attempt at connection. Like he’s waiting for something to spark and it never does. You don’t know why it bothers you—maybe it’s just strange, seeing Sirius Black not get what he wants.

What you don’t know, what none of the girls know, is that Sirius is searching.

Frantically, recklessly, hopelessly.

He tries everything. Girls, boys, dates by the lake, snogging in empty classrooms, brushing against strangers in Hogsmeade with his sleeves rolled up, just in case. Every time someone new touches his soulmark—just barely brushing the dark smear on his shoulder—he closes his eyes, waiting for the heat, the light, the magic.

It never comes.

He acts like he doesn’t care. Laughs about it. Brags. But the truth is: it’s killing him. Slowly. Quietly.

Because every time someone skims over that mark and nothing happens, a tiny piece of him breaks off. And he’s terrified there won’t be anything left by the time he finds the right person—if he ever does.

And then Peter finds his soulmate.

It happens at the beginning of fifth year. Quietly, almost accidentally. A Ravenclaw girl named Sybill, who spills an entire bottle of ink across Peter’s lap in the library while reaching for a Divination book. Their hands collide. Her fingers press against the side of his nose to wipe off a splotch of ink—and just like that, the brown mark on Peter’s skin disappears.

The Marauders explode with excitement.

James shouts. Remus claps Peter on the back. Even Sirius manages a grin, saying something like, “About bloody time,” and ruffling his hair.

But it’s forced. All of it.

Later that night, Sirius doesn’t join the celebration in the common room. He doesn’t toast with Butterbeer or tease Peter about marrying her. He disappears without a word. No one sees him until morning.

Peter can’t even bring himself to be annoyed. Not really. Not when he knows the truth.

Because they all know how much Sirius wants it. How much he needs it.

He’s never said it out loud, not fully, but they know. They’ve seen the way he looks at the mark on his arm. The way he flinches when someone mentions his family.

Sirius was born into a house that doesn’t believe in love.

That he used to stare at the stain on his own shoulder and imagine what kind of person would leave a mark like that. He’d lie awake at night thinking of how it would feel when the right hand met his skin and the darkness vanished. He promised himself he’d find them, whoever they were. That he wouldn’t settle for anything less than fate.

But now it’s fifth year, and everyone’s starting to find theirs.

Peter. A seventh-year Ravenclaw. Two Hufflepuff girls from their year.

And Sirius still wakes up every morning with the same mark on his arm. Still hears the echo of his mother’s voice every time he thinks he might be falling for someone who isn’t right.

“You’re a Black. You don’t need love. You need a legacy.”

Remus tries to comfort him, in that quiet, practical way of his.

“Maybe they’re not here,” he says one night as the two of them sit on the roof of the Astronomy Tower. “Maybe they’re a Muggle. Someone you’ll meet after school,”

Sirius scoffs. “And what? I’m supposed to wait until I’m forty to stop being miserable?”

James, bless his heart, tries to be optimistic.

“Maybe they’re in a different year. Or got expelled. Maybe you’ve walked past them and just didn’t notice!”

“I would’ve noticed,” Sirius says. “I always notice.”

And that’s the problem, really.

He notices everything. Every brush of skin, every accidental touch. Every time someone’s hand drifts too close to his shoulder, his breath catches. And every time it’s a false alarm, it hurts just that little bit more.

He stops dating after a while.

Stops pretending it’s fun. Stops trying to turn every crush into a cosmic sign. He goes quiet instead. Withdraws into himself in a way that startles the rest of the Marauders.

You notice too.

At first, you’re suspicious. Sirius Black, not flirting? Not loitering around with James and causing chaos in the corridors? Clearly something’s afoot. You and the girls watch him warily, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for whatever stupid, elaborate prank he’s been cooking up in the shadows.

But it never comes.

He just... stops.

He shows up to class. He does the work (mostly). He still laughs at James’ jokes and joins in on late-night games of Exploding Snap. But something about him feels dimmed. Like someone turned the brightness down and forgot to turn it back up again.

You catch him in the library once. Alone. Reading.

Not just pretending to read while scouting for mischief—actually reading. You don’t even realise it’s him at first, not until he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and sighs, that heavy, exhausted kind of sigh you only let out when you’re tired of your own thoughts.

It’s strange, seeing him like that. Almost... human.

You don’t say anything. But you wonder.

You wonder what it would take to make a boy like Sirius Black lose his fire.

The others don’t know how to help.

James keeps trying to set him up at parties—“You’ve got to give Marlene a go, mate, you haven’t lived!”—but Sirius just shakes his head and makes excuses. Peter walks on eggshells around him now, too guilty to mention Sybill’s name. Even Remus has started watching Sirius like he’s waiting for him to fall apart.

And maybe he is.

Because Sirius is still staring at his soulmark every morning. Still pressing his fingers against the edge of it in the mirror, hoping for something to change. Still half-convinced that the universe has made some horrible mistake and left him behind.

And deep down, he’s terrified that one day he’ll stop believing entirely.

Terrified that he’ll become like his parents after all—loveless, cold, bound to someone he doesn’t care about out of duty or desperation. That he’ll wake up one day with a ring on his finger and still feel empty.

The Marauders try to reassure him, but there’s only so much comfort logic can offer when your heart is breaking.

“Maybe your soulmate’s just late,” Remus says.

Sirius smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Maybe.”

But he doesn’t believe it anymore.

And the worst part is—he thinks maybe he doesn’t deserve to.

—

It starts with one of James’ bright ideas—those three words guaranteed to end in absolute catastrophe.

You’d almost forgotten what they were like at full volume, the four of them together. Sirius has been quiet. James has been distracted by Quidditch. Peter’s been off somewhere playing the role of besotted boyfriend. Only Remus still walks with that same watchful calm, as though he’s just waiting for them all to detonate.

But now, spring has finally settled over the grounds, and apparently that’s all it takes for them to start acting like menaces again. Warm sun. Open skies. Exams far enough away to ignore. The perfect ingredients for trouble.

They pick a Saturday afternoon—when the courtyard is packed. Blankets spread across the grass, books open in sunbeams, students from all four houses lounging about, soaking up the rare spell of warm weather.

It’s almost peaceful.

Until, of course, it isn’t.

You don’t even see the beginning of it. One moment you’re mid-conversation with Lily and Mary, trying to decipher the reading Professor Vector assigned, and the next you hear it—a low, slow rumble that can only mean one thing: a spell misfiring, or worse, succeeding exactly as planned.

A bang. A crack. A distant cackling.

Then—chaos.

Water explodes from the central fountain like a geyser. But it’s not just water. It’s pink. And sticky. And foaming. Thick bubbles rain down in hot, fizzy clumps that stain robes and cling to hair.

Someone screams. Then someone else. People scramble, books flying, cloaks drenched.

The spell races outwards, triggering a domino effect. More fountains erupt. Flowerbeds launch their contents skyward. A tree nearby begins to moo like a cow. First-years scatter. You spot one poor Slytherin girl get absolutely bodied by a rogue jet of foam, which sends her skidding across the wet stone with a shriek.

And you?

You’re drenched. Covered in what smells distinctly like cherry-flavoured soap and glitter. Your scrolls are ruined. Your hair sticks to your forehead. A glob of pink bubbles drips from your left eyebrow into your eye, and it stings.

Mary coughs violently. Dorcas is doubled over, wiping foam out of her mouth. Lily looks like she might start setting people on fire.

And just when you think it couldn’t get worse—someone bursts into tears.

A whole group of first-years huddle near the corridor entrance, some of them crying, others shaking and soaked through. One boy is trying to wring out his bag, which is frothing like a cauldron gone wrong.

That’s when you see them.

James, Sirius, Peter and Remus, standing at the top of the courtyard steps like the gods of mischief themselves, admiring their handiwork. James is laughing. Doubling over with it. Sirius grins behind his hand, not quite as loud but no less smug. Even Remus has a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though he looks slightly apologetic when his gaze lands on the crying first-years.

But James? He lives for this.

He catches sight of you all below and grins wider, leaning on the bannister like a conquering hero. “You’re welcome!” he shouts, arms wide, as though he’s done the school a bloody favour.

And that’s Lily’s last straw.

You don’t even get the chance to stop her. One second she’s storming forward, and the next she’s standing toe-to-toe with James Potter, fire in her eyes, her wet robes whipping around her ankles like war banners.

“You complete, arrogant, idiotic—”

James’ smirk falters.

“Oh come on, Evans, it was funny! Just a bit of spring chaos. We’re making memories!”

“Memories? You’re lucky you didn’t traumatise those poor first-years! Do you have any idea how many people you’ve covered in Merlin-knows-what? Or if someone sprains an ankle from slipping on your ridiculous glitter spell?!”

James opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at his friends, then back at Lily. And tries again with a laugh.

“It was just a bit of fun—”

The slap echoes.

You swear the whole courtyard goes silent.

It’s not violent, exactly. But it’s loud. Sharp. Final. James recoils more from shock than pain, hand flying to his cheek where the skin is rapidly turning red. He stares at Lily, wide-eyed, like he’s just seen something completely impossible.

Lily doesn’t wait for a reaction. She turns on her heel and marches away, spine stiff with rage.

You and the girls scramble after her, slipping and squelching through the aftermath. Marlene grabs your wrist before you can get too far.

“Wait.”

“What? We have to catch Lily—”

“No, look,” she hisses, pulling you back a few steps. “James.”

You turn.

James is still standing in place, dazed, fingers grazing his cheek.

But that’s not what Marlene’s pointing at.

You follow her gaze to the spot just beneath his eye. The place you and everyone else at Hogwarts has seen marked for years. The pale, milky-white handprint that always curved over his cheek like a ghost of affection, a sign from the universe that someone, somewhere, would one day hold his face with love.

It’s gone.

Completely.

Not faded. Not lightened. Just—vanished.

Your heart stops. Marlene inhales sharply.

“Oh no.”

Your mouth goes dry. You glance past her, back at the boys.

James is still frozen, his hand touching the cheek Lily slapped. There’s a dazed look in his eyes, like he’s been thrown out of orbit. Sirius is watching him with narrowed eyes, the ghost of a smile dying on his lips.

You feel a chill settle in your spine.

Because if Marlene’s right—if James’ soulmate mark has vanished—then that means...

“Bloody hell,” you breathe. “He was right.”

Marlene nods grimly. “We can’t let her find out like this.”

But it’s too late. Lily’s already disappeared into the castle, trailed by Dorcas and Mary, soaked and furious. And now you have to run after her. You have to get there before the realisation does.

You shove past Sirius’ shoulder as you go.

Deliberate. Sharp.

It’s not just anger. It’s disgust. You don’t even give him a word. Just that one hard nudge as you pass, an unspoken “You’ve crossed the line.”

He flinches.

Not because of the shove—Sirius Black isn’t afraid of a little contact—but because he feels it. The judgement. The disappointment. The thing he’s been trying to outrun since he realised he might not be better than the people who raised him.

You don’t look back.

You sprint through the castle corridors, foam drying on your skin, your clothes damp and clinging. The halls are still buzzing with the aftermath of the prank—students yelling, teachers trying to regain order, enchanted trees mooing somewhere in the distance.

You find Lily inside the girls’ bathroom, gripping the edge of a sink like she’s trying to hold herself together.

Her shoulders shake.

You slow to a walk.

Mary’s rubbing her back. Dorcas is pacing. No one knows what to say.

“She slapped him,” Dorcas says under her breath, half in awe.

“She bloody well should have,” you snap.

Lily looks up.

“Was it too far?” she asks. Her voice is fragile in a way you rarely hear. Like she’s trying to justify herself to the universe.

“No,” you say gently. “He deserved it.”

And it’s true.

You believe in soulmates. You believe in the magic of it—the wonder. But even magic doesn’t excuse cruelty. James Potter can be charming, and brave, and infuriatingly loyal, but today? Today he crossed a line. And you’re not going to let Lily think she was wrong for calling him out.

She nods, swiping a hand under her eyes.

“I just—I’m so tired of him thinking the world revolves around him. Like we’re all just extras in the James Potter show. And I know he thinks I’m his soulmate, but that doesn’t give him the right to treat people like that. Especially not you lot.”

You hesitate.

You glance at Marlene. She gives you a grim little nod.

“Lil...” you start.

She freezes.

“Don’t,” she says.

You flinch. “Lily—”

“Don’t,” she says again, firmer this time. “Don’t say it.”

You fall silent.

Because she knows. Of course she knows. The way James looked at her after the slap, like he’d just had something knocked out of him. The stark paleness of her palm.

She knows.

And you know what that means for her.

Lily Evans has spent the last five years being hunted by the boy who swears she’s destined for him. She’s spent every term, every class, every common room hour pushing back. Standing her ground. And now... the universe is laughing in her face.

She clutches the edge of the sink again, knuckles white.

“No,” she says. “I won’t let it be true.”

Mary reaches for her. “Lily—”

“No. I don’t care if the mark’s gone. I don’t care if he’s supposed to be my other half. He’s selfish, and he’s arrogant, and he doesn’t listen. That isn’t what I want in a soulmate. That isn’t what I deserve.”

None of you argue.

Because she’s right.

James Potter may be her soulmate. But that doesn’t mean he’s ready to be.

—

The dormitory is quiet, in that awful way that happens when something big has happened—something wrong. James lies curled on his bed, the heavy velvet hangings pulled back for once, as if no one quite has the heart to close him off from the rest of them. His shirt is wrinkled, glasses abandoned on his dresser, and he hasn’t said anything in over an hour. Not since he’d stammered his way through the story, not since he showed them the now-unmarked skin of his cheek and murmured, “It’s gone.”

And it is. Gone.

There’s nothing left on his face. Not even a faint outline or shadow. Just smooth skin, still red from Lily’s slap. There’s no magic glow, no dramatic fanfare—just absence. That was the moment, and it’s over.

James stares at the ceiling as though he can find answers in the wooden beams above.

Remus sits nearby, his Transfiguration book forgotten in his lap, watching him with silent worry. Peter’s perched awkwardly at the edge of his own bed, fidgeting with the sleeve of his pyjama top. Sirius hasn’t even changed yet, which is strange in itself. He’s still in his robes, arms crossed, leaning against the bedpost like he’s afraid if he sits down it’ll make the whole thing too real.

“She slapped me,” James says at last, his voice hollow.

No one replies. What could they possibly say?

“I thought—I always thought it would be different. Like... I thought she’d kiss me, maybe. Or—bloody hell, even hug me. I’ve imagined it so many times. My soulmate mark disappearing while she’s holding my face—like in the books, yeah? All romantic. She’d look at me and know.” He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “But no. She slapped me. She hated me in that moment. That’s what the mark was all along. A physical reminder that my soulmate despises my existence.”

Sirius shifts his weight, looking down at the floor.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Remus says gently. “She was angry. There’s a difference.”

James doesn’t answer. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a shaky breath, but it comes out wrong—hitching, like he’s holding something back and failing.

“I was right,” he says, voice cracking. “All this time. Everyone told me I was wrong, that I was being delusional, but I was right. She’s my soulmate.”

“And now you’re miserable about it,” Peter mutters.

James lets out a choked sound that might be a laugh or a sob or both. “Because she didn’t want to be. Not like that. She touched me for the first time because she was furious. That’s not... that’s not what it’s supposed to be.”

Sirius finally sits. Slowly. Quietly.

He wants to say something. But what? That he understands? That he’s sorry? He doesn’t know what comfort would even look like in a moment like this. He’s spent so long chasing the idea of soulmates, of finding someone who would make everything else make sense, and now that it’s actually happened to James—look at him.

He’s shattered.

Remus slides closer to James and places a hand on his shoulder. “Just because that was the first touch, doesn’t mean it’s the one that defines you both forever,”

James looks at him like he wants to believe that. Like he’s desperate to hold onto something, anything, but the shock is still too fresh.

“I need to lie down,” he mutters, and he does—curling onto his side, facing the wall, his breath uneven. The boys don’t speak after that. The air is heavy, like someone’s cast a silencing charm that chokes instead of quiets.

He cries. Quietly, at first. Then with broken little sounds he tries to smother with his pillow. Until eventually, there’s nothing left in him. He just wilts, tension draining out of his limbs, and within half an hour, he’s asleep—face still blotchy, fists still clenched.

They don’t close his bed curtains.

Remus takes the book off his lap and folds it closed with a sigh. “This is all... bloody grim,” he mutters.

Peter nods. “I didn’t think it would hurt when someone found their soulmate,”

“It doesn’t,” Sirius says, his voice hoarse. “It shouldn’t,”

He stands slowly. Pulls his wand and begins to unfasten the enchanted buttons on his robes, too tired for anything else.

Peter looks up, and the moment Sirius pulls his shirt off, there’s a gasp.

Loud. Audible. Shocked.

Sirius freezes.

Remus sits bolt upright. “What?”

Peter’s eyes are wide. “It’s gone,” he says. “Sirius—your mark. It’s gone.”

Sirius turns to the mirror near his bed so fast it rattles.

And... it is.

The smear that had haunted his shoulder for his entire life—like ink spilled across parchment—is gone. Completely. Clean skin where for seventeen years there had been a swirling mess of fate.

His mouth goes dry.

“No—no, no, no—”

He twists, trying to see if maybe it’s an illusion, or if the mark’s somehow moved, but it hasn’t. It’s not there. Not anymore.

He met them. His soulmate. And he didn’t even know.

He stumbles back from the mirror, breathing fast. “Who—who—?”

But even as he says it, the memory flashes. Hard and hot.

Your shoulder hitting his as you shoved past him on your way to follow Lily. The disgust in your eyes. The sharp tension in your jaw. You hadn’t said a word. But you’d touched him.

And now the mark is gone.

Sirius stumbles backward and sinks onto the edge of his bed.

“Oh, Merlin,” he whispers. “No. No, no, no.”

Peter is watching him with wide eyes. “You never touched her before?”

“I didn’t know!” Sirius snaps. “I didn’t even realise it was you! I mean—her. You know who I mean. I am stressed.”

Remus is still sitting stiff-backed on James’ bed, but his attention has fully shifted. “You’re sure it was her?”

“She shoved me,” Sirius mutters, staring at his shoulder like he could magic the mark back into existence through sheer willpower. “Right after Lily slapped James. Just... barged past me like I was nothing. But she touched me.”

“And you didn’t feel anything?”

“Not at the time.”

“...Do you now?”

Sirius goes quiet. Slowly, he places a hand over his shoulder—over the empty spot where the mark used to be.

It’s warm. But not from contact. From within. A lingering hum of magic, like the echo of something once powerful now stilled. Or maybe it’s just his internal body temperature. He really doesn’t know right now.

“No*,*” he murmurs. “Maybe? I don’t know—”

Peter clears his throat. “Well... you found your soulmate. That’s supposed to be good, right?”

Sirius laughs—short and bitter. “She hates me.”

Peter winces. “Oh.”

“I mean, she doesn’t slap me in public, but she’s made it perfectly clear what she thinks of me and the rest of us.”

Remus leans forward, elbows on knees. “Maybe it’s not what you think,”

“She shoved me, Moony. Deliberately. It wasn’t a stumble, it was on purpose. And she looked at me like I was filth.”

Remus opens his mouth, then closes it.

The dorm is quiet again. Only the soft rhythm of James’ breathing breaks the silence.

Sirius rests his head in his hands.

“I’ve spent my entire life waiting for this,” he whispers. “All the rubbish my family taught me, all the coldness and cruelty—I thought if I could just find my soulmate, it would all be worth it. That I’d finally get to have something real.”

Remus moves to sit beside him.

“But it’s not like I imagined,” Sirius says. “She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t even like me. And I didn’t even know it was her. How could I not know? Isn’t that the whole point of soulmates? That you just... feel it?”

Remus is quiet for a long moment.

“I think,” he says eventually, “soulmates aren’t about one moment. They’re about choosing. About what you do with the bond once it’s formed. Fate puts you in each other’s paths. It doesn’t promise it’ll be easy,”

“I wanted it to be easy,” Sirius admits. “I needed it to be,”

Peter lies back on his bed, eyes on the ceiling. “So did James,”

Sirius glances over at James’ sleeping form—his face slack, the traces of dried tears still visible in the soft light from the window. And suddenly, Sirius feels sick.

They’d both spent so long believing that soulmates would fix everything.

But what if they don’t?

What if the person you’re meant for doesn’t want you back? What if you’re not who they want?

Sirius doesn’t sleep that night. None of them really do.

The dormitory stays dim and heavy, thick with unanswered questions.

—

You don’t realise anything’s changed until you peel off your shirt in the showers that night.

The steam clouds the mirror, thick and cloying, but your reflection is still visible through the condensation. You’re barely paying attention—too wrapped up in the tangle of emotion and disaster that had been the day. You’d barely managed to get Lily back to the dormitory before she’d started crying, silent and furious and heartbroken all at once, like she couldn’t figure out where the anger ended and the betrayal began.

You’d held her hand. Rubbed slow circles on her back. Said all the right things, and meant them.

You’re still thinking about her—about the look on her face when she’d slapped James, the silence that followed—when you glance in the mirror and see it.

Or rather, you don’t see it.

You freeze.

Your towel drops slightly, caught on your elbow as your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. Your breath hitches.

Because the mark is gone.

You stare. For a full five seconds, you try to convince yourself that maybe the steam’s playing tricks, that maybe it’s still there and you just can’t see it clearly, but no—your fingers sweep across smooth, warm skin. Nothing. No trace of the strange, smudged mark that’s been with you for as long as you can remember.

Gone. Just like that.

The only thing different today—the only moment it could have been—was in the courtyard, when you’d shoved past Sirius Black with all the venom you could muster and didn’t even look back.

You’d touched him.

Your stomach lurches.

No. No, no, no.

You grip the sink, knuckles whitening.

It can’t be.

Except, it clearly is.

You stand there for a long moment, half-naked and shaking slightly, trying not to spiral. Because if Sirius Black is your soulmate—Sirius Black, who’s been a menace since year one, who charms and pranks and flirts and smirks and acts like the world should kiss the ground he walks on—then what does that say about you?

Nothing. Not yet. This doesn't have to mean anything, not right now.

You inhale through your nose. Count slowly to four.

Then exhale. Focus.

This isn’t the time.

Lily needs you. Lily, who’s just had her own horrible soulmate revelation, whose best moment turned out to be her worst, who is currently lying on her bed pretending not to cry, refusing to talk to anyone but you.

You straighten up. Wipe the mirror with the corner of your towel. Look yourself in the eye.

Whatever’s happening with Sirius—whatever the universe just decided to dump on your lap—it can wait.

You have more important things to deal with.

—

When you return to the dorm, your hair still damp and sticking slightly to your cheeks, Lily’s lying on her side, facing the wall. Marlene and Mary have gone quiet, sitting together on the far bed, shooting you looks that speak volumes.

No one says it. No one has to.

They know too.

You can see it in the way Marlene’s gaze flicks to your shoulder, then back to your eyes. The way Mary’s lips purse like she’s holding something in.

You nod, barely perceptible. They understand. They don’t press.

You cross the room and settle on Lily’s bed without needing to ask. Her duvet rustles as she shifts slightly, and when you place a gentle hand on her shoulder, she doesn’t shrug you off.

That’s something, at least.

You sit in silence for a while. It’s not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Loaded.

Then she says, voice muffled and raw, “He laughed.”

You blink. “What?”

“When I slapped him,” she murmurs, turning slightly to glance at you. Her eyes are red-rimmed, lashes stuck together. “He laughed. I don’t think he meant to, but he did. Like it was funny. Like I was... like he didn’t even get it.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t think it was that.”

“Well, then what was it?” Her voice wobbles. “He’s always made it a joke, hasn’t he? Me. Us. His soulmate thing. Like I’m something he’s already won, just because some stupid magic says so.”

You squeeze her shoulder.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she whispers. “I didn’t want this.”

“I know,”

“I feel like he’s stolen something from me.”

You press your lips together. “He didn’t mean to,”

“That doesn’t change it.”

You don’t argue.

She sniffles, and you pass her the tissue you’d pocketed from the bathroom on instinct. She wipes her nose, then stares at the ceiling.

“What if this is it?” she asks. “What if this is who I’m meant to end up with?”

Your chest tightens.

“Then the universe has a really shit sense of humour,”

That earns a small laugh—barely there, but enough. Enough to let you breathe again.

“I don’t want to be bound to someone who doesn’t respect me,” she says. “Who thinks everything’s a game. I’m not just a puzzle to be solved.”

“I know,” you say again. “You’re allowed to be angry,”

Lily turns to you fully now, tucking her legs up under the blanket.

“Do you think soulmates are... inevitable?”

It takes a second before you answer.

“No. I think they’re possible. Not guaranteed. You still have to choose each other. Every day. Some people don’t. Some people can’t.”

She nods. “What would you do?”

You hesitate.

And she sees it. Sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait. You’re not—?”

You swallow.

“I found out in the shower,”

“Who?”

You don’t answer immediately.

She sits up straighter, frowning. “Who?”

“Sirius.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, “Oh no.”

“Yeah.”

She flops back against the pillows. “You’re joking,”

“I wish,”

She groans into the duvet, hands over her face. “This is cursed. This whole week is cursed.”

“I know,”

“And you touched him?”

“I didn’t know, I shoved him—”

“Still counts,” she mutters.

You sigh, tipping your head back to stare at the canopy above. “This is my nightmare.”

Lily peeks through her fingers. “Does he know?”

“Probably. If his mark disappeared,”

“Bloody hell.”

You nod. “Yeah,”

There’s a pause.

Then: “Do you think he’ll say something?”

You snort. “It’s Sirius. He’ll probably write a speech,”

Lily doesn’t laugh. Not quite. But her mouth quirks in a way that feels close.

She lies back beside you and you both stare at the ceiling for a while.

The air between you settles. Still heavy, but softer somehow. Shared.

You don’t talk about the future. Or what comes next. Or what you’re supposed to do now that your entire understanding of the world has shifted in a single day.

You just are. Together. Grounded in the now.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

—

It’s weeks.

Weeks of sidelong glances and awkward tension, of group projects rearranged so the Marauders don’t have to work with you lot, of meals taken at opposite ends of the Great Hall, and corridors that somehow feel colder when you pass Sirius Black without a word.

You don’t speak. Neither of you does.

But you look.

More often than you mean to, probably. He’s always there—hovering in your periphery, just beyond the safe reach of indifference. And sometimes, when you do catch his eye across the classroom, across the courtyard, across the common room—your heart stutters. Not romantically. Not even longingly.

Just... confusedly.

Like your body knows something you haven’t given your mind permission to explore.

You haven’t let yourself dwell on it. Not properly. Every time your thoughts edge toward him—toward what it means, toward what it could mean—you feel like you might actually be sick. The whole situation knots your stomach. So you shut it out. Bury it beneath essays and exam prep and Lily’s slow process of healing. You focus on her. On your friends. On anything else.

But Sirius?

He thinks about it.

Constantly.

He obsesses, really.

At first, he doesn’t know why you haven’t said anything. He waits for a confrontation. An insult. A blow-up. Something. But it never comes. You just look through him like he’s a smudge on glass—visible but irrelevant.

So he convinces himself you’re disappointed. Of course you are. He’s a bloody wreck of a person. What kind of soulmate is he supposed to be? The one who hexed half the school for fun and made first years cry in the courtyard? The one who chased flirtation like it was a sport and never stuck around for anything real?

He’s not soulmate material. Not the kind you’d want, anyway.

So he watches you. Quietly. Miserably.

You, meanwhile, do a spectacular job of pretending none of this is happening.

Until, finally—finally—he cracks.

—

You’re walking alone to the library after dinner—quill case tucked under one arm, satchel banging against your hip—and Sirius intercepts you at the stairwell.

He doesn’t say anything straight away. Just blocks the path with one foot planted on the top step, the other resting two steps below.

You eye him, unimpressed. “Can I help you?”

He swallows. Runs a hand through his hair. It’s messier than usual. Less styled.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You glance past him. “I don’t have time—”

“I’m not trying to pick a fight,” he interrupts. “I swear. Just—listen for a second. Please.”

You fold your arms. “Fine. Talk.”

Sirius exhales. “I know you know,”

Your stomach clenches. But your face remains carefully blank.

“I know your mark’s gone,” he continues. “Mine is too. I saw it the night James’ disappeared. And you... you shoved me that day. I felt it.”

You stare at him. Unmoving. Silent.

“So,” he says. “We should probably have a conversation about what comes next,”

A bitter laugh escapes before you can help it.

“What comes next?” you repeat.

“Yes. I mean—if we’re soulmates—”

“If?” you cut in, raising an eyebrow.

He falters. “I meant... since.”

You shake your head. “No. See, this is exactly the problem. You think just because we’ve got some magical cosmic tattoo situation that suddenly we’re meant to be.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Yes, it is,” you snap. “That’s what you’ve always believed, isn’t it? That it would be this grand, perfect thing. That you’d meet your soulmate and everything would just fall into place.”

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

You press on.

“Well, I don’t believe that,” you say. “Because just because someone’s your soulmate doesn’t mean they’re right for you. It doesn’t mean they deserve you. And it definitely doesn’t mean you’re obligated to like them.”

Sirius flinches.

You cross your arms tighter over your chest. “And I don’t like you, Sirius.”

The words hang in the air between you. Thicker than fog. Sharper than broken glass.

He stares at you.

You expect him to be angry. To scoff or sneer or shrug you off.

But he just... looks hurt.

Not dramatic. Not performative. Just gutted.

It’s the quiet that does it. The way his shoulders fold in slightly, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. Like something’s come loose inside his chest.

He drops his gaze. “Right,” he says, softly. “Yeah. Okay.”

You hate how your chest aches at the sight of him. Hate the part of you that wants to apologise, to take the edge off your words, to explain that it’s not really about him, but more about what he represents—the expectations, the fate, the lack of choice.

But you don’t.

Because it is about him. At least partly.

You step around him. “There’s nothing else to say.”

And you leave him standing there, alone on the stairs.

—

He doesn’t sleep that night.

He lies awake in the dormitory, staring at the canopy, James’ soft snores filling the space between the beds.

He replays your words over and over, like a record stuck in a skip.

I don’t like you, Sirius.

He’d spent years searching. Desperate. Starved for the connection his family denied. He thought finding his soulmate would fix him. Would make it all make sense.

But you want nothing to do with him.

And maybe that’s fair.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve it.

But for the first time in a long time, Sirius doesn’t wallow in that thought. He doesn’t spiral, or storm out, or pick a fight with someone just to feel something.

He makes a decision.

He’s going to prove himself.

If you don’t like him, he’ll become someone worth liking.

Not for the mark. Not because fate says so.

But because he wants to.

Because you’re brilliant. Because you didn’t fall over yourself at the thought of being soul-bound to him. Because you called him out. Because you see him, even when you wish you didn’t.

And because something in his chest—something ancient and aching—still hopes.

He’s going to show you he can be better.

He’s going to earn it.